


Ecstasies Innumerable

by suffragettecity



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991), My Own Private Idaho (1991) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crushes, Detention, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay, High School, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, mike waters kinnie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25477996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suffragettecity/pseuds/suffragettecity
Summary: "He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred."
Relationships: Carmela/Mike Waters, Carmela/Scott Favor, Scott Favor & Mike Waters, Scott Favor/Mike Waters
Comments: 37
Kudos: 64





	1. Room Two-Fourteen

It started with a pink detention slip. 

Student: MICHEAL WATERS  
Incident of reason: FALLING ASLEEP IN CLASS/BACK TALK  
Date: FRIDAY  
Time: 3:10-5:00  
Room: 214

Mike scoffed lightly as he peered down at the crumpled slip in his palm, mumbling a quiet string of curses. Second time this month.

He made his way down the hall, backpack slung carelessly on his right shoulder as he dodged what few students were left loitering around their lockers. He liked it when things were quieter -especially pertaining to large crowds- but there was something so foreign about being comfortable. About being seen, being heard. 

It was a tango of distaste. 

“Ah, Mr. Waters.” Mr. Pigeon coiled as Mike pulled open to the door to room two-fourteen. “Or is Sleeping Beauty preferred, hm?”

“Bob.” Mike nodded, flicking the slip onto the desk of his old teacher. “Or should I say Father Christmas?”

“So there’s that infamous back talk I hear so much about.” Bob sighed and inspected the paper. “Sit down.”

In room two-fourteen, there was an atmosphere Mike had become accustomed to. It smelt like chalk and bubblegum. It had a graveyard of broken, battered, and abandoned desks other classrooms got rid of for obvious purposes. It had diagrams of the human anatomy with certain body parts emphasized with graffiti. It had a broken AC. It had PIGEON EATS COX written in fading permanent ink on the chalkboard. Most importantly, it had a handful of delinquents in the rows.

It was home.

Mike slumped in his usual seat by the window four rows down. He was comfortable here, glancing out the window that overlooked the bright orange trees of autumn that littered the courtyard. Although most of the people here stay close to their friends, Mike preferred to watch instead of partake. Everyone here knew he wasn’t quiet or boring, he just didn’t say much. And to this crowd that was all okay. 

“Yo Mike.” Gary, a tweek receiving a weekly punishment for explicit acts on school grounds, peered across his desk two seats to Mike’s left. “Got a light?’

“What inqueerey are you imposing, young Gary?” Mr. Pigeon boomed, sitting up from his swiveling chair. Pigeon stood big and round, with wiry hair and a thespian way of dialect. He needed a shave and a belt, but no one here cared. Mike knew him last year, since he was the freshman English teacher and delinquent supervisor on Fridays. Hell, he was one of the delinquent’s himself and a father in that sense. 

“If Bible study is still on for Sunday.” Gary retaliated, slugging back in his chair and away from Mike. 

“Oh, you’re a quick one aren’t you.” Bob sneered. “Well, I out to-”

“Am I interrupting something?’ A confident voice asked with the click of an open door.

Mike’s eyes shot up to the front of the room where Scott Favor stood smirking. An unfamiliar hush went through the restlessness, and the atmosphere of outcasts was thrown off with the presence of a popular rich star. Scotty was a blessed being in Portland; a principal's son and charming man. Everyone knew him, many adored him, but only a few were good enough to love him. Despite this, he had admirers of every clique. Mike stupidly included.

“Scotty! My old student, how are you.” Bob beamed, walking over in Scott’s direction. “The debate is in room one fourteen today, my boy.”

“I dropped debate, Mr. Pigeon. I’m here for my court order.” Scott flashed the familiar pink paper of sentences and a collective whisper strangled through the room. Mike sat up.

“Now what does Principal Favor’s son have to do to get an afternoon in the doghouse, hm?” Bob spoke slowly, asking the question everyone was thinking. Bob took the paper and peered down at it through squinting eyes, reading the reason. 

“Smoking on school grounds?” Bob gasped. “And disrespect to authority?”

“Alright!” Budd, in detention for a multitude of reasons, yelled from his chair, pumping a fist in the air that ignited a burst of cheers from the others. “Favor’s son is one of us!”

“Quiet quiet.” Bob barked and wobbled back to his desk, taking the paper with him. The crowd hushed down but continued their inquiry until a voice rose up from the back, silencing the room.

“What were you smoking?” Mike asked coolly. Scott met Mike’s eyes, hesitating before a smile painting a smile across his pretty face. 

Mike half regretted saying anything at all. It was one thing to look at Scott without him knowing- just to appreciate his attractive hold. But as Mike found himself staring deep at Scott Favor, there was a sense of immense comfort and submissiveness washing over him.

He swallowed. He flushed. Scott noticed.

“Cigarettes.” He smirked, still holding Mike’s gaze. “I only get high with someone else.”

Mike, overwhelmed with charm, blinked fast and looked away. 

“Alrighty you devil you.” Bob said, addressing Scott. “Sit down and make yourself useful for the time.”

“Don’t.” Mike thought, holding his attention out the window as Scott walked over in his direction. “You fucking would wouldn’t you.”

Scott plopped down extravagantly in the seat next to Mike’s. 

Yes, he would. 

“I’ve seen you before.” Scott inquired quietly in Mike’s direction. Mike looked over. “I mean I see everybody, but I think I’ve really seen you. Did you ever do a play?”

Mike thought for a moment, knitting his brows. “I’m not in- uh- theatre. But I did do Shakespere a while back for extra credit.” 

“That’s right.” Scott hummed. “You were a great King Henry. I loved your voice.”

“My voice?”

“Yes.” Scott smiled. “Use it.”


	2. Being Heard

“Pick it up, Waters!” The P.E teacher barked, watching as the skinny blonde boy sighed and trudged into a light jog. 

It was an early fall morning in Portland, with a nip in the air that pricked at Mike’s ears. He didn’t mind, however. He loved the cold. It was the running he hated. 

Around him, he could hear the laughs and chatters of his classmates as they ran in their respectable groups around the track. The girls in a perfect trot. The boys racing and whooping. There were a few people by themselves like Mike, but they didn’t seem to be as alone as he was. 

Perhaps that’s why Scott peeled away from his trust-fund friends.   
“Yo Mikey.” Scott called, a little breathlessness in his voice as he jogged up to the boys left. 

Mike turned his head in surprise. “Oh.” He knitted his brows. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Scott smiled, slowing down to match Mike’s pace. Mike felt a little uncomfortable at the sudden interaction, or perhaps it was Scott’s red cheeks flushed with the autumn wind that made Mike fluster. He ignored it, despite wondering how someone could even pull off the drab light gray tracksuit everyone was assigned to wear. 

“So, what are you gonna do for Friday?” Scott asked. His question was pertaining to detention and how Mike planned to get in this week. 

“I always get in by sleeping in class.” Mike shrugged. They turned the corner, tennis shoes hitting the asphalt track in unison. Scott huffed a laugh.

“I’m always wide awake. I think that’s my weakness, Mikey.” Scott looked forward, black hair flopping in front of his dark eyes. Mike looked over at him, noting the use of the new pet name Scott seemed to use every sentence. This was only the second interaction the two had ever had, the first being the greeting last week as Scott walked into 214, and already Scott was perfectly comfortable around his blonde friend.

Mike didn’t know how he did it so easily. 

“I was thinking about maybe grafting something.” Scott said, voice dropping as they passed a group of peers. “Budd has paint.”

“That could work...” Mike sniffed tentatively. “Aren’t you afraid of ending up in your father’s office?”

“Oh- fuck him!” Scott said, looking over at Mike. “Fuck him and his million dollar paychecks that could never buy me a dog. Y’know what bothers me, Mikey? What bothers me is that he expects me to be afraid of him. But I would never dare cower in his presence. What father wants that for their son?”

Mike let this weigh in on him with a sinking feeling. The skillful way Scott was able to express such a topic like family was... incredible. Passionate. Real. It was like Mike was finally being understood.

Scott noticed the way Mike was looking at him, with big and careful eyes, and he felt a smile brush his lips. Scott smiled because he, too, truly felt heard. 

There was a silence between the two as they both looked away from each other's gaze, comfortable in the atmosphere they shared. Mike felt awkward in the foreign comfort and attempted to dilute the feeling.

“Well if all fails,” Mike smirked smally. “Call Mrs. Allison a bitch.”

Scott chortled. “Will do.”


	3. Blow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes on the boy begin to blow

The rain pattered against the cigarette littered asphalt and Mike bundled himself up beneath his layered Goodwill coats. His gaze was drawn to his battered converse as they rustled the puddles beneath him, and his pace was quick and with purpose. This was unusual for Mike, since he always cherished the lonely waltz home with eyes glued to passing buildings and street corners as if he were seeing them for the first time. He loved the city, thus he never hid. So his shrunken posture and quick pace made even him shudder with a ticking sense of foreignness.

But Mike was being followed.

As soon as his foot stepped out of the school’s swinging double doors, he felt an uneasy shift in audiences. Eyes were on him- thus he began his quick walk home. The checklist of usual bully’s and druglords ran through Mike’s head several times. Did one of his mumbling smartass comments accidentally slip out too loudly? Had he forgotten to pay back the blow?

He started to jog.

School was only a few blocks from home in the first place, so the idea of catching a ride from the bus never crossed his mind. Until it was too late, that is. The pattering rain started to soak his hair and the paranoia made his stomach churn, and all he could think about was the paradise of the leather seats and screaming freshman the yellow bus could be providing right now. Oh god, he thought. I’m going to die here.

Of course he wasn’t going to die, but Mike was cursed with always thinking about the worst possible things. He could see it now: his body shriveled up in an alley way of some kind, with blood diluting into the rain and eyes black and puffy. He couldn’t limp his way home- he was never that strong. And his follower, whoever may it be, leaving with bloody knuckles and whatever thing they came to avenge. Oh god. Oh god oh god.

He saw his house now; a shriveled apartment complex squished above a porno store owned by the landlord. The shitty little building with decaying walls nearly made Mike melt as he pumped his legs across the splashing street. He heard a car rumble behind him as he made the decision to sprint, and immediately he let a cry slip from his throat. If he were to die then he would be sliced open below his bedroom window, and the irony of that thought felt heavy.

But Mike successfully flew himself into the building, nearly crashing into a customer as he stumbled to a stop inside. “Shit!” He gasped, catching himself against the wall as his lungs bled. Relief washed over him and soaked him like the rain. He bathed in this victory.

“The fuck?” Dick called from behind the counter as he rang up another slimy customer. The few people that were in this type of store on a Tuesday afternoon all watched closely as Mike ran a hand through his dripping hair and heaved his chest in breath. Dick looked at the puddle by Mike’s feet. “Oh Mike- what the fuck.”

Mike sighed a heaving hello before trudging to the employee entrance behind the counter, painfully aware of the chuckles and eyes that followed him. He found the staircase in the back and walked upstairs, ignoring the squishing sound of his shoes. He was safe- but he was also home.

“What was that all about?” Dick asked later that night after he locked up the store. A smirk was on his lips. “You running from bullies, boy?”

“No.” Mike lied. He was laying on the couch, eyes dully watching whatever gameshow that happened to be flickering on the glitching screen. “Fuck off.”

“Ha!” Dick ruffled his brother’s hair that was still edged with rain, finding this all hilarious. But he suddenly shifted his tone into a lecturing one. “Seriously though, remember, the Water’s always repay their drug debt. You better not be squatting.”

“Then you still owe me for the shoebox stash.” Mike grumbled into the pillow.

“Find a better hiding spot, prick.”

With that, Dick disappeared down the hall to leave Mike in his wallow. All this talk about blow was making him antsy for the ease, but he knew that if he started to use it now- when he felt like this- his dependency would worsen. Good old fashioned weed was all he needed. But again, he hadn’t bought in weeks. That’s what confused him about all this. If it wasn’t a violent pissed off peer, then who was following Mike Waters?

A gentle name came to mind, but dissipated just as softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a little filler chapter as i get back into the story. using the basic author trope, but i've been quite busy with school and havent had time to update. i should be picking this up quite frequently now however  
> big shoutout to all the people commenting, it makes my day!


	4. Death Cabs for Cutie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike becomes acquainted with the eyes that follow him and catches a ride.  
> Perhaps death smiles too.
> 
> TW- descriptions of drug use (weed)

The day was ridden with paranoia.

Mike was afraid that every sharp turn across a hallway corner would leave him face to fist with the suspected bully. His neck hurt from craning to look over his shoulder. 

When the bell rang, the eyes returned. They watched him scuttle out of the doors into the parking lot, creeping behind him with the rumble of a car. Mike nearly passed out until the call from a familiar, preppy voice fell out of the car's open window. :“Need a ride?”

“Are you following me?” Mike firmly planted himself with hands in fists by his side. He didn’t know why his heart was beating so recklessly, but as the car beside him grumbled in silence, he swore every neighborhood in the slums of this city could hear his chest thump. 

As Scott sat silently with a smile on his lips, Mike came to the conclusion that him trying to be assertive just came off as pleading. He relaxed a bit, sighing through his nose as he traced his eyes down to his feet. Of course he wasn’t going to deny a ride- and Scott knew this. So he accepted defeat with another dramatic sigh, and walked around the car to the passenger side. All while Scott smirked in victory.

The first thing he noticed was that Scott’s car smelt new. It was rimmed clean and scrubbed to perfection, with tan leather seats barely broken in. Despite this obvious sign of careful attention, there was dripping ash and crumpled butts in the cigarette holder which seemed onpar to how Scott treated nice things. Music that Mike recognized was playing softly on the radio as Scott pulled the car into a tender drive. 

Mike didn’t buckle. 

The two sat in a comfortable silence- Scott enjoying the company and Mike not wanting to overstep with his voice. Only when Scott stopped at a red light did Mike break.

“You never answered my question.” He said, his voice seeming impossibly too loud. Scott glanced over at Mike and Mike glanced back, catching his dark eyes with a neutral gaze. 

“Morbid curiosity.” Scott murmured in that confident way of his, throwing his head around in a gentle shrug. His eyes were still on Mike.

“I didn’t mean too, yesterday I mean.” Scott said after the light turned green and he shifted his gaze to the road. The car hummed. “Gary had said that you lived above the porno shop on eigth. Is that true?”

Mike shifted in embarrassment. “Yea.” He muttered like it wasn’t a big deal, but he felt his cheeks run hot. It’s not the best living situation in the first place- paycheck to paycheck with your legal guardian who is also your asshole brother- but to be so poor that you have to rent out and work from a pimp landlord isn’t exactly something Mike would want people to know. Gary, who has been addicted to cheap porn since seventh grade, has caught Mike there several times over the years and connected the dots.

“Ha-!” Scott exclaimed, smiling wide. “That is wonderful. I thought he was shitting me.” 

The realization that Scott and Gary were conversing on their own about Mike came creeping in with a sense of insecurity. He didn’t really know how he felt about that. Scott turned a corner. 

“Anyway. I saw you leaving school and got impossibly bothered on whether or not he was lying. So I went looking for said porn shop, just to see.” Scott continued. “If it felt like I was following you, then I’m sorry.”

“It's fine.” Mike felt stupid. He had nearly killed himself running away from Scott of all people. He tried to lighten the mood. “I can get you a discount on magazines.”

Scott let out a loud and impressive laugh that drew Mike in to a chuckle himself. “I’ll take you up on that.” Scott winked. “Word of advice Mikey, never buy your indulges up on the hill. Everyone there keeps tabs on who buys what- who buys who.”

“Lots of prostitutes up there?” Mike asked. Up there being the above sea level homes that wealthy people reside upon. The nickname “the hill” was both metaphorical and literal. Mike’s never been up.

“Like you won’t believe. I always find them walking back down or sleeping by lampposts with brand new wads of cash in their pockets. I give them rides home, smoke with them. They’re good people, Mike. Free.”

Mike hummed. He didn’t have to imagine how odd it must be for the hustlers to wander into Scott’s lavish car- because Mike was living it with them. He was now one of Scott’s strays. 

There was just one thing Mike and the strays didn’t have in common: “Want to smoke?”

Scott had parked halfway between the hill and the slums, nestled on the side of the road that overlooked the city. Apparently this was his usual spot for a casual high, because by the time he could drive again he’d have a glistening view of the stars at night. Mike thought that was beautiful and grew in anticipation for the sunset.

Scott rolled his own then rolled for Mike. “You don’t have to do that.” He objected. 

“It’s the practice of a good host. You’re my guest.” Scott smiled. He was unbuckled now and facing Mike, using the armrest to hold his work. In reality, Mike had only protested to be polite. He loved watching Scott focus deeply on the craft, gentle and slow hands traveling across the paper. 

“Do you play an instrument?” Mike asked, eyeing Scott’s hands. Scott laughed through his nose at this.

“I don’t make a fool of myself by showing people, but yes. Piano. Mother’s instructions.”

“Your hands give it away.” Mike said softly. “The way they..move.”

Scott was looking up at him now, suspended in action with a soft look on his face. Mike gazed back.

“I could just be well practiced.” Scott smiled small, looking away to finish the final product.

“Sure,” Mike said back, taking the now ready spliff that rested in Scott’s hand. “But you don’t just move to move, you move with purpose. You dance.”

Scott loved that. He smiled and watched as Mike rested the blunt in his fingers, reaching for the light with his free hand. 

“Ah-ah.” Scott muttered, stopping him. “You’re still my guest.”

Nestling the fresh roll between his teeth, Scott flickered the lighter to life with a smoking haze. Mike watched as Scott put the lighter back down and waved him over, insinuating a form of intimacy that Mike felt strangely nervous for. They both leaned forwards until they were inches apart- until their breath sighed together in one exhale. Mike caught Scott’s eyes for only a second before darting away, feeling sickly close. Mike took Scott’s lit flame and pulled away first. 

He took a long drag, ignoring the fact that Scott never faltered.

“I think you have great things to say.” Scott said after a few minutes of silence. He glanced across the translucent cloud of smoke where Mike sat relaxed. Mike rolled his eyes. 

“You said that before. I think your bullshit.”

“No, I’m serious.” He laughed freely. “You said my hands dance, Mike. Do you know how special that is? To me?”

Mike sat and blew another puff. He was quiet. 

“Do you know how interesting I think you are?” Scott continued.

Mike was now brave. “Is that why you look at me like that?”

“Why do you look away?”

“You want me to gaze into you?”

“Yes.”

This was all said with the shaking haze substances usually provide. Nothing had any real weight or meaning, but instead just swirled in the air across ears. The atmosphere was nothing but comfortable.

By the time they had finished their spliffs, they were reclining with the seats back and eyes fixated out the sunroof. At one point Scott had gotten too warm and pulled his sweater off, revealing a tight undershirt he usually wore on cold days. He caught Mike watching him do this and they shared a breezy laugh. “So now you look at me.” He had said.

After that, there really wasn’t much more to hide. Mike looked out at the stars with a fading high and wondered how much more vulnerable he could get with the boy that lay besides him. How much of the world will Scott show him before destroying the universe? How much more tenderness could Mike show before inevitably becoming a burden?

He felt Scott’s eyes on him, and again, he looked over to meet them.

Mike had accepted it all.


	5. Porn Shop Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott pays a visit to Mike's place of business after yesterday's intimate events

The next morning, Mike found himself waking up to the sound of rhythmic knocking. He squinted his eyes to the light that bled through his bedroom window, seeping in and soaking the blank, crumbling, and familiar walls. He didn’t remember coming home last night.

The knocking became more urgent as Mike registered the voice on the other side calling his name. “Micheal- ah you fucker, get up! I’m not covering your shift again today!” 

Mike sighed and rolled out of bed, shuffling to the door. He opened it to find Dick, mid knock and pissed off, standing on the other side. He wore his painter's uniform that was well worn and splattered with color. 

His face grew from annoyed to amused, seeing the state of his brother. “You look like hell.”

“You can go to hell.” Mike grumbled, moving past him. He shut the door to the bathroom before Dick could get any more brotherly teasing in. A few minutes later the front door creaked, and yet again Mike was left alone with no goodbye. 

The shower was cold and weak, barely any different than a winter’s cloudy drizzle. In the cracked medicine cabinet mirror, Mike watched himself undress. He never really liked the way he looked, but he could guess that his clothes had a lot to do with that. They were faded and torn at the seams, with each little patch of unsewn holes exposing Mike’s true wealth: slum status. As he slipped the black fitted shirt off of his head, he caught the faded remains of whatever perfume clung to his frame. The smell was comforting, like vanilla and sweet weed. It smelt like Scott.

Oh, Scott-!

The remembrance of his friend’s existence left a slight burn in his brain, because oh how quickly he let himself forget. But now the floodgates were open and swinging with a thousand different embarrassing thoughts jumbling together into one headache. Did he fall asleep in the car, or was he actually conscious the entire time but just hazed by recreational substance abuse? If not, how long did Scott wait before driving him home? Did Scott carry him upstairs? Was Scott Favor in his bedroom? He shivered. 

Mike used to have an excellent memory. Quoting songs from childhood like they were nothing, studying street maps until the entire city was tattooed on his palm. But now he was left scrambling, each coherent thought connected with red string as Mike attempted to solve the murder-case of his poor health. The adults in his life would argue that it’s all the drugs- just another symptom of being a burnout. His brother would argue that it’s just hereditary- something inevitably passed down like the color of his eyes. But really, Mike knew that it was his mother. Her presence and lack thereof shattered whatever chance he ever had to be stable.

Mike had left his memory in Idaho.

He did remember, however, that he had work downstairs in fifteen. So he shut the water off and changed quickly. 

The morning was slow and drifting, with no customers entering until at least noon. Mike struggled to figure out if that was a good or bad thing considering what this establishment was selling, because what kind of maniac would buy porn at eight thirty in the morning?

So he did what he usually does when business is slow- nap. Folding his arms across the glass cabinet that housed cigarettes and speciality condoms, Mike shut his eyes and counted his breaths. Another thing that went hand in hand with poor memory was a constant aching restlessness. Mike could pass out any time or place, just give him a chance to blink his eyes shut. In school it was especially hard to keep up due to the droning of teachers. He also found the desks to be incredibly comfortable. 

But he was in love with sleep. It was his fleeting mistress.

A little pestering ding rang through the shop an hour later as Scott entered through the beaten entrance. He was wearing a long black coat that had the first two buttons undone, with hair parted and sliding across his head perfectly. He stood and looked around grandly, a smile perched on his lips as he made his way to the register.

With a nudge of Scott’s elbow, Mike snapped awake. “Your customer service is terrible.” 

“Shit, hi.” Mike said groggily, waking up with a stretch. He lowered his eyebrows at the realization of who exactly was here. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m taking you up on that discount.” Scott drummed his fingers on the counter. “Show me around?”

“It’s pretty self explanatory. Magazines, tapes, freaks.” Mike stood and waved his hand around to each corner of the store. 

Scott slid out of the way and tried not to snicker as a pudgy old man with a stack of Playboys came to checkout. He continued his pestering anyway.

“I want a tour.”

“Just gave you one.” Mike rang up the old man. “Thirty-one, o-two.” 

“Oh come on. Humor me. What does the boss recommend?” Scott eyed Mike curiously. The old man turned to Mike as well, now shamelessly invested in a response.

“Fuck off.” Mike peered back. The customer took his discrete black-bag of goods and left rather quickly after that. Scott snickered. 

“You’re an asshole.” Mike meant this whole heartedly, but couldn’t contain the small airy laugh that slipped from his smile. 

“Uh huh. Got any magnums?”

“Jesus.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Help me unbox this shit at least, will you. Asshole.”

Scott helped Mike carry and unload the new issues of dirty magazines from a beaten cardboard box. Well, he had intentions of helping, but he sat distracted on the floor with an issue spread out in front of him instead. 

“Do you think they’re happy?” 

“No.” Mike stood on a footstool, trying to organize in alphabetical order before realizing no one here gives two shits. He started putting them on the shelves in handfuls.

“If I could get paid for showing off my body like that, I would be ecstatic.” Scott closed the page and threw the magazine into the pile. He leaned back on his palms. “Wouldn’t you, Mikey?”

“No.” Mike said this rather quickly, raising Scott’s suspicion. 

“It’s easy work. You look pretty, someone takes pictures, and you cash your check.”

“And try not to think about what people do to those pictures.” 

“What people do in the privacy of their bedroom is no business of the artist.”

“Well no one’s going to be jacking off to me anytime soon, thanks.” Mike looked over to find Scott smiling to himself, silent for once. “What?”

“Nothing.” Scott jumped up. “When do you get off work?”

“Midnight.” 

Scott walked back to the front of the store and plucked a pack of cigarettes and condoms from the glass case. “I’ll be back.” He winked. 

“See ya.” Mike said before a slow realization hit him. “Hey, Scott?”

“Yeah?” He called back, halfway out the door. Mike stood silent, not knowing how to phrase this obviously invasive question.

“Last night..”

Scott smiled. “Don’t sweat it.” 

And with that he left, leaving the door swinging in its little chime. Mike sighed, defeated.

He had other questions on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so fun to write, i really hope you guys like it. looking back on this story, i definitely feel like its growing as i go.   
> i plan on having this story's climax be really serious, so thank you to all who stick around!


	6. The Second-Floor Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott goes missing and returns to find Mike in the second floor bathroom.

“I’ll be back.” He had said before leaving, pocket full of cigarettes and condoms. I’ll be back.

Mike hadn’t seen Scott since. He stayed awake that night waiting for a rich car to pull up on the street below, but there never was. He scanned the school's parking lot Monday morning for the same car, but again; there was no trace of Scott Favor. 

It felt like withdrawal. 

Pissed off at the fact that he cared so much, Mike slipped out of Civics to smoke in the second-floor bathroom. Normally he would go to the bleachers with all the other burnouts, but today he was stricken with a gnawing sense of loneliness. He wanted to wallow. So he propped himself up by the window near the wall-anchored sinks and lit up. 

Feeling his lips wrap around a paper cylinder made Mike nostalgic. For what exactly he didn’t know, but there was a hollowness in this sight of lonely chain-smoking. He felt it before in little flickers, persistent in their glow, but the melancholy candle Mike held so dearly was never really phased by the concept of being alone. Now, however, he felt like a part of him was forever burned by Scott’s presence. The entire world has shifted beneath Mike’s feet.

They smoked once, Mike thought. Fucking once.

The door creaked open and Mike stood straight, fumbling the cigarette behind his back. He coughed away any nicotine left in his lungs while frantically waving his hand to dissolve the smoke. It looked suspicious, sure, but it was better than being nonchalant about it. He expected an authoritative declaration of Friday afternoon detention, but was met with a smiling voice instead.

“Hey.” It said, echoing grandly. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, standing six foot one in dapper shoes and ironed oxford sweaters.

Mike coughed cooly, trying to mask his surprise and wide eyes. He took a breath and muttered a treading hello.

Scott let the door swing shut with a sigh before sauntering over to Mike. He slumped up against the tile wall and dropped his slingbag to the floor, obviously extravagantly tired. Not knowing what else to do, Mike offered his cigarette with a few fading coughs. Scott took it immediately. 

The world knew peace again.

“Fuck me, Mike.” Scott sighed after a long, long drag. “Blasphemous be my last name.”

“Hard night?” Mike asked, trying not to sound too prying. Scott looked over at him, studying, before smiling.

“Hard life.” Scott proclaimed. 

Mike nodded. There were hundreds of desperate questions tipping on his tongue, all of them pondering the event that made Scott flee for two days. Mike assumed it had something to do with his father, who was the only person who could dull Scott’s flame. Upon reading him, Mike could see a checklist of physical stress painted on his body; pools of purple underneath eyes that were glazed, positioning to be as small as possible, slow and deep breaths. It hurt Mike to see himself in Scott. 

So he opened his mouth quietly in reassurance.

“I don’t know my father.” Mike murmured. Scott’s face dropped slightly. Mike had opened a door now, words tumbling out of his mouth that deeply impacted the atmosphere. It felt good to say something so secretive out loud into the open air, to say something and have someone actually listen and reflect on your words.

“But it doesn’t bother me, y’know.” Mike continued, taking the cigarette from Scott’s tender grasp and placing it on his own perched lip. “It’s taken a while, but I… I realized that I don’t need him. At some point you become your own person.”

Scott gazed at Mike for a few seconds before turning his head slowly to the front of the room. He was thinking, deeply. “What else?” He asked quietly. Mike thought.

“I still carry him with me, however. No matter how far I run he’s still there, in my mirror especially. My mother didn’t have blue eyes.” Mike’s voice caught on the word mother and he swallowed. This must’ve been the first time in years he’s audibly referred to her, and it felt like a bad word. Like he’d scream it and nuns would bruise their knuckles in discipline. Blasphemy.

“She didn’t have much of anything.” Mike whispered so quietly now, lost in his head. “Nothing normal. Everything she gave me was the worst of her. And there were so many holes for my father to fill- but he must have been just as fucked up. Because, well, look at me.”

Scott did just that. His eyes travelled across Michael Waters, digesting his frame and his cheekbones and the little imperfections that were conceived by a fucked up mother and a fucked up father. He found worn edges, sure, but he didn’t see anything ugly. Scott wished for Mike to look back at him, but he knew that his eyes reading his body was just as reassuring as a physical embrace. Mike felt seen, and that was enough. 

Despite this, Scott’s hand still found its way to cup the nape of Mike’s neck. His thumb ran circles, pleasantly igniting a warm feeling in the pit of Mike’s stomach. The two sat in silence for a while, reflecting. 

Scott had everything “good” in life handed to him on a silver spoon, while Mike scraped his way for even an ounce of wellness. Yet they were both deeply, deeply confided in this friendship, connecting under the pretense of shitty parenting and inescapable dissatisfaction. They knew a hill couldn’t define trauma. Nature versus nurture, or lack thereof, was marked in underline.

“Sorry.” Mike sniffed. “I didn’t mean to make this all about me.”

“You didn’t.” Scott pressed, really meaning ‘I understand’. He stopped the motions of his thumb and slipped his hand down Mike’s back, igniting small shivers. His hand now rested by his side. 

“I don’t think I’m going back to Civics.” Mike laughed dryly, swiping his hand across his face. Scott laughed in response, ending it with a sigh as he picked up the bag by his feet.

“You ever climb that hill, Mikey?” He asked, plucking the nearly crumbled cigarette from Mike’s mouth and finishing it off in one quick drag. His mind was still stuck on that nature nurture theory. 

“Oh yeah, lots of times.” Mike joked. “Dinner parties especially.”

“Well how convenient, because I’m inviting you to one.” Scott joked back, taking the punchline into his own hands. Mike’s face dropped.

“Uh.”

“C’mon,” Scott began walking to the door, a smug look on his face. He threw the dead cigarette into the sink. “What size suit are you?”


	7. Scott Favor's Residency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike is introduced to Scott's house, father, and room. All with little bumps of intimacy.

“Scott,” Mike twinged. “I’ve never been to a party like this before.”

Scott sighed. Ever since they ditched campus to head for the hill, Mike was overthinking his way out of this evening. He sat in the passenger seat pittering, every few minutes raising a con to the list of reasons to not attend. It was hard for Scott to understand this, because he could so easily blend into Mike’s world of grime and loose change. He gave him the benefit of the doubt, however, because the metaphorical climb of that steep hill could leave blisters on your palms if you aren’t careful. And to Mike, this was a first time hike. 

He needed to speak his language.

“Mike.” Scott leaned over as if he were about to share a secret between them, hands on the wheel of his trust-fund car. “What are rich people known for?” 

“Inbreeding?”

“Dust.” Scott’s eyes smiled and his eyebrows raised. “Old fashioned, pure, and barely laced cocaine! I was practically raised on it.”

Mike perked up. In the grand scheme of getting access to blow, he’s had to endure worse things than tiny champagne glasses.

“I’m going to look ridiculous in a suit.” He concluded, agreeing softly to Scott’s proposition.

“Nah, all the aristocrats of Portland will love you.”

“All? How many people will be there?”

“Sixty.”

“Sixty?!”

“Well, it is the Favor Autumnal Dinner.”

The Favor’s house was guarded by two rows of symmetrical bushes and a lavish iron gate that opened to the presence of Scott’s car. It was much nicer and much more uphill than any of the other houses, and it looked like the way rich houses should, Mike thought. He didn’t really know what that meant- he just knew that it made sense.

The house itself was stark white with black shutters, ivy slithering up the side in a vast artifact of campy wealth. Two columns stuck out in symmetry, growing to the top floor that connected a walkout porch. For some mild inclination, Mike assumed that it was Scott's room that opened up to that very porch. He could easily picture him using it as a getaway late at night. The thought alone warmed him.

The property was littered with gardeners and arriving caterers who walked through the back entrance carrying various boxes and flowers. Scott parked the car near the stand-alone garage that housed four of these wealthy automobiles, carefully maneuvering away from the trails of people preparing for tonight's dinner. As Mike exited the car, he caught a glimpse of a rose garden edging the sides of the house’s walkway. The beauty in them caught him off guard, and he believed for it to be the richest thing he’s ever seen. 

Until, of course, he entered the house at Scott’s heels.

Marble floors that clacked beneath shoes. Tall, arching doorways. A chandelier that sparkled like the champagne bottled in clear cabinets by the kitchen. A persistent smell of a warming dinner mixed with the natural perfume of the Favor residence. 

Everything was so eye catchingly grand. 

“Scott?” A man’s voice called from the ascending staircase. The voice was old and perched, insinuating a declaration of authority different from teachers or police officers in the case that it was more bone chilling. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Jack.” Scott yelled back mockingly. He turned towards Mike and rolled his eyes. “It is I- the close to kin!” He unbuttoned his heavily-lined coat and let it fall to the ground in a careless heap. Mike decided against that action and stayed warm.

“Scott,” the voice trailed into the room, a face appearing with it. “Do not call me Jack.”

The man was broad shouldered and dark around the eyes- giving off the impression that he never looked up for anyone. He was dragging through his fifties, sprinkling white in his brunette hair that he must have passed down to Scott. Mike recognized him from his march around the school halls and for an office discipline two years ago, where he had sat across Mr. Favor’s desk trying his best not to make eye contact as he was scolded. Mike looked at the floor. Old habits die hard.

“Of course, Sir.” Sarcasm dripped off Scott’s words.

“Shouldn’t you be in school.”

“My dear father- shouldn’t you be running it?”

Mike felt eyes land on him.

“Micheal Waters.” Mr. Favor stopped at the last step of the grand staircase, narrowing eyes at Mike with a voice so deep it shook the house. The surprise of the sudden spotlight flustered Mike, who shot his gaze up and gaped around. He started to shakily introduce himself in a way that was probably inadequate for these people before Scott thankfully stepped in.

“My plus one.” Scott nonchalantly interrupted. “You said I could bring a date.”

Mr. Favor now eyed Scott. “I thought you were taking the McCarthy’s niece.” He pressed. “She came all the way from Italy, you know.”

Scott bristled, mouth twitching into a smile but eyes uncharacteristically dark. “I am not sleeping with a mail-in bride.”

Jack stood eerily still. His face, that flecked ounces of similarity to his son’s, held both disappointment and expectancy- like he anticipated Scott’s brooding attitude but was just as impatient as the first cracked joke. His voice grumbled. “Your mother would be so devastated with you.”

Mike never could remember the extent of toxicity family environments could conceive. He remembers little quips of uncomfortable silences or muffled screaming behind closed doors, but poor memory blocked off any quarrels like the one he witnessed now. Little sharp tongued arguments that stretched on for weeks with the same underlying problem in every one. But as his eyes watched Scott’s face falter for the first time since meeting him, Mike finally understood: There was something claustrophobic about this wealth. Blinding about the dazzling chandeliers. Sickly about the rich perfume. This six-figure trauma was just one end on the fucked up spectrum called childhood- with Mike standing on the other side in the slums.

His respect for Scott grew in bundled hundreds. 

Sighing deeply through his nose, Scott moved forwards towards the marble steps. His gaze was still on his father as he muttered. “Come on, Mike.”

Mike followed, tracing softly behind his friend. 

“Nice to meet you,” Mike said casually. “Jack.”

A lot can be said about a person based on the appearance of their room. Mike was sure that there was some psychological analysis on the reasoning behind this- but all he knew was that Scott’s room made perfect sense in every way.

Compared to the cleanliness and gold trimmed railings decorating the rest of the house, Scott’s room looked like it was actually lived in. Clothes scattered across the floor. Posters and stolen road signs littering the light grey walls. The smell of cigarettes hiding behind incense. The only thing that gave away the wealthiness was the size of the room itself and the king-sized bed pushed to the corner- but even that was unmade. 

Scott made a b-line for the bedside table. As he scourged in the clutter, Mike found himself drawn to the bookshelf by the window. “You read.” He noted.

“Of course I read.” Scott muttered. “You got a light?”

Mike chucked him the little plastic lighter he kept in his faded jean pockets. Scott grumbled a thanks and lit.

“You read Shakespeare.” Mike whispered to himself as he turned his attention back to the books on the shelves, reaching for a particularly creased and dog-eared Hamlet. He opened up the yellowing pages to see Scott’s handwriting scribbled in the margins with red ink. The image of Scott hunched over and annotating pretentious works of literature made Mike smile. He put it back tenderly and focused his attention to other small details of his room.

His eyes landed on a framed photo of a young woman by the windowsill. She stood with a baby on her hip, one hand supporting the new-born and the other outstretched. Behind her was what Mike assumed to be a reservation, with rolling hills and grains of wheat that bent in the wind. She had a face of pure glee.

“Mother dearest.” Scott mumbled sadly. Mike picked up his head to find Scott inspecting the photo from over Mike’s shoulder, cigarette in hand. He had successfully surprised him. “He says I devastate her.”

Mike grew warm at Scott’s gentle voice that trickled down his nape. He spoke just as soft. “I don’t think you do.”

Scott looked at Mike. “Why do you say that?”

“Look at her smile,” Mike shrugged, nervous. “You got it all from her.”

Scott had a blank expression, glistening eyes focused intently on his mother. A smile grew faintly on his lips as he glazed back to Mike. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“Do I?”

Mike was now turned halfway towards Scott, looking directly into his dark eyes. The two stood awfully close and comfortably silent, breath barely touching. Scott’s tenor voice that barely raised above a whisper was the first to break. “Yes.”

Mike was close to death. But before anything, Scott characteristically took a drag and leapt away, mood now turned into its regular skipping one. “Let’s get you fitted!” He bounded.

Mike caught his breath, standing awfully still in order to control himself. He knew why he felt like this and why his fingers trembled, he just hoped Scott didn’t. He placed the photo down and cleared his throat. “Coming.”


	8. The Favor's Autumnal Dinner

“Here,” Scott exited his walk-in closet with a pile of folded clothes in hand. He passed them over. “You can keep these.”

Mike looked tenderly down at the layers of fabric in his grasp. “I can’t do that.” 

“Sure you can.”

Mike grazed his thumb across the smooth texture of a white collared shirt.“I guess.”

“You guess.” Scott repeated with a smile. He made his way to the door. “I’m going to go obtain some pre-game. Get dressed.”

“Alright.” Mike muttered as Scott closed the door. “Alright.”

He placed everything on the unmade bed and inspected the loot. Scott had managed to give away everything Mike could ever need for tonight- a black tie, black belt, black pants, and a clean white shirt. Even socks were folded neatly on top of this unobtainable ensemble. Mike sighed as he slipped off his shoes. 

Changing in Scott’s room felt strange. Everything about this felt strange- but being half-naked in the room Scott grew up in was especially, intimately, unusual. He tried to be exposed for as little time as possible, fumbling with the buttons and zippers that didn’t belong to him. He prayed for the first time in months that Scott didn’t walk in to see his bare torso or lanky arms that were a tad bit too small for Scott’s clothes. Mike figured that this creeping sense of insecurity gnawing at the folds of his thoughts would stay there for the rest of the night.

This all felt like Halloween. 

This was just a costume.

Mike was looping the tie around a crumpled collar when Scott knocked on the bedroom door, returning from his search. “You decent?” He asked.

Mike called back softly. “Yeah.”

Scott pressed down on the handle and threw open the door grandly, stepping into the dimly lit bedroom with a commanding presence. He lifted two champagne glasses in one hand and a bottle with the other in a gesture of victory- but his hands drew back slowly as his eyes stopped on Mike. He stood silent. Floored.

Mike looked over, traces of nerves crossing his face in the form of a knitted brow. “Hey.” He muttered, turning his attention back to the tie. He ignored Scott’s stance and tried his best to focus, but his gaze became harder and harder to not address. “What?”

Scott’s blank face grew into a knowing smile, head shaking slowly. He muttered something to himself as he made his way to the desk to pop the cork of the bottle. He continued to shake his head as he made the drinks. “One of many.” He had said, pouring the amber liquid into one of the glasses. He held up the cup and walked over to Mike.

“Thanks.” Mike shook, gulping it down in one swift motion. 

“Nervous?” Scott chuckled, mildly impressed. Mike nodded.

“I can’t figure this out.” He said softly, motioning to his tie. “I’ve never…”

“Poor boy.” Scott joked, placing down his own cup to tend to Mike’s abrasion. He placed his hands near Mike’s neck and began the process he’s known since primary school. Mike exhaled and closed his eyes.

Scott’s motions were gentle as he looped the fabric on the uplifted collar. He tried not to make Mike too uncomfortable with his gazes- but he truly couldn’t help it. Mike looked absolutely good, too good, in these riches of his. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the type of flirtations Mike would receive from the lonely and wealthy women of his father’s company tonight. Or men for that matter. The thought alone made Scott a little bit irritable, for he knew that his timid and deer-like friend would be powerless against those types of advances. Scott at least had the protection of his last name. Mike had the weakness of being mysterious.

“You really are nervous, aren’t you?” Scott noted as he smoothed down Mike’s finished tie, unbuttoning the first notch to Mike’s shirt in the process. “A little protest of your own.” He mumbled.

“Thanks.” His eyes opened but remained dark. 

“You know you have nothing to worry about.” Scott lied. “These people have no expectations for you. You can walk down those steps half naked and they’d think you were some interesting Fine Arts Major.”

Mike shrugged. He turned the attention off of himself. “What are you wearing?”

Scott smiled. “Glad you asked.” 

He turned around and walked back to the closet, where an all black suit was already hanging off the back of the door in awaited perfection. It compared to Mike’s briefly, the big difference being the dark silk button up Scott was especially proud of. It was an all black ensemble.

“Morbid.” Mike noted. He sat down on the bed. 

“Exactly.” Scott said, “I’m attending one of many funerals tonight.”

Much to Mike’s presence, Scott began undressing right then and there. Mike timidly looked away after they shared a brief awkward glance. The image of Scott looking at him with his shirt discarded on the floor will forever stay put in the dark corners of Mike’s mind.

“What-” Mike tried to play up the conversation as a distraction. “What do you mean?”

The shuffle of a belt hit the ground. “A part of you dies with every event, Mikey my boy.”

Don't say my name, Mike thought. Please don’t say my name.

“That’s promising.” Mike joked, voice trailing into a crack he hoped Scott didn’t notice.

“Well, I think I just pull it off. Don’t you agree?”

The question was insinuating a look of affirmation Mike wasn’t really sure he could give. But as his gaze trailed up to Scott- who stood with his sleeves rolled up and shirt unbuttoned- he found himself speaking truthfully. “Black sure is your color.”

Scott looked proud. “I think so, too.”

Beneath the floorboards the distant sound of chatter rose from the silence. Cars soon began to line themselves up outside, each license one of wealth. The two boys would be fashionably late to the party that was just starting downstairs.

“Ready?” Scott asked softly. The two stood in front of Scott’s large floor mirror that cracked at the edges, fixing up a few final touches to their looks. Scott had successfully convinced Mike to slick back the top of his hair so it fanned out in a blonde tussle behind his ears and neck. A few strands kept falling in front of his face and he irratibitaly tucked it back, realizing that he would be doing this action all night.

“I don’t think that champagne was strong enough.” Was all Mike said, the nerves mixing with a slight buzz.

“It never is.” He responded. Scott placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder and steered him towards the door. Mike took a look around the room one last time, praying that when he returns later tonight he’ll be grossly drunk.

“Stay behind me.” Scott instructed as they neared the stairs. Voices of the chattering crowd became louder with every clacking step. Mike was glad to cower behind Scott’s slightly taller frame. 

When they turned the corner, a rush of sound and warm lighting flooded Mike’s senses. The chandeliers, now lit with a soft yellow light, shimmered down on the socializing crowd as they laughed and mingled. They were mostly all middle-aged, with a few nearing senior. A piano played softly in the echoes of the large house, calming the atmosphere into a stereotypical dinner of the wealthy. Scott noticed Mike’s shortness of breath and clutched his hand gently. They began their descent downstairs. 

“You’re doing great.” Scott muttered over his shoulder. He gave his hand a squeeze as Mike practically clung to his back, nearly tripping down the marble steps in an attempt to hide himself from the heads that turned. He reassured once more. “You’re doing great.” 

“Yeah.” Was all Mike said as they stepped off the stairs. Scott didn’t even falter in confidence as a couple called him over immediately.

“Scott!” A woman, slightly drunk, praised. She had short greying hair that girls would call Vogue, and she wore a sparkly red dress that twinkled happily. A man slightly older clung to her side, steering her over to the two boys. “Look at you!”

Scott slipped his hand away from Mike. “Hello Mrs. Ewing.” 

“Look at you!” She repeated. “Oh, it has been too long. Too long!”

“Yes it has.” Scott nodded, voice accented with a rich and confident tone.

“Why, I haven’t seen you since your piano recital.” Her voice was pitched in a snooty drip that mixed funnily with her drunken state. The man by her side stood silent, embarrassed, as she turned her attention to him. “How long ago was that, Charles?”

“Must be at least five years.” Scott responded for him. 

Mike was watching this all from behind Scott’s shoulder. He was entranced with the efficiency and propperness Scott was able to conduct. He was so used to this formal socialism. Suddenly the woman's gaze turned to him.

“Who is this!?” She grinned. Scott smiled as well and turned around to his flustering friend. 

“Ah,” Scott looked at Mike, a familiar gleam in his chaotic eye. “This is Micheal. My homosexual lover.”

The woman's face shattered into a million tiny pieces of shock. Mike, witnessing this through wide eyes, came to several conclusions in one hilarious end. This was why Scott was so adamant to have Mike here: he was just a pawn in the game of fucking with entitled people’s heads. It wasn’t because he wanted to show him off- it was just because Scott needed support. He needed an equally as ridiculous shoulder to lean on.

The feeling of having to be needed came warmly through Mike as he relaxed for the first time that day.

He brilliantly intervened.

“We met at communion.” Mike placed his hand on Scott’s proud shoulder. 

The woman grew whiter. “Well… well.” She muttered. She slowly turned and began to walk away, the man by her hip beat-red. They blended into the crowd, mumbling shock between them.

“Genius!” Scott bursted into a laugh. “Oh my God, Mikey. Communion.”

Throughout the night, Mike would be known as several things. From lover, to hustler, to rehab officer, the more people they met the more ridiculous his introductions became. The gossip about the blonde boy became a confusing game of telephone.

Scott and Mike ended their socializing by the corner of the large room near the pastries. They perched themselves near the wall as whispering heads turned towards them, word spreading like wildfire. Mike, oblivious, made his dent on a fluffy cake in his hand. It was the most delicious thing he’d tasted.

“Hey,” Scott muttered to him, picking himself up from the wall. “Stay here, yeah?”

“Hm?” Mike asked, flicking his head up as Scott disappeared through the sparkling crowd. Suddenly aware of all the gazes, Mike wiped his mouth and straightened his back, insecurity sweeping his feet once more.

Mike watched Scott stop by a handsome man who stood on the wall across the room. The man was middle aged but not cursed with age, looking dashing in his fancy suit. He seemed to welcome Scott knowingly, like he’d been eyeing him all night. The two mingled quietly.

“Excuse me…” A small voice asked.

Mike whipped his head to see a petite girl standing awkwardly by his side. She had birdlike features and beautiful eyes that gazed up worriedly. She wore a light blue strapped dress that had sinches by her breasts. Mike cleared his throat.

“Hello.” Mike said in his weakest attempt to conduct a sense of rich authority. The woman looked sad, and for some reason that made Mike comfortable. He extended his hand. “Mike.”

“Carmella.” The woman responded lightly, shaking his hand. Her voice dripped with an accent that Mike assumed to be European.

“I apologize.” She nervously chuckled, tucking a strand of brown pinned up hair behind her ear. “I do not know these people.” 

Filled with understanding, Mike offered her the unfinished cake that rested in his hand. She took it graciously. 

“I don’t know these people either.” Mike responded, eyes focusing back into the crowd. Scott and the mysterious man were no longer in their previous position across the room, and a prick of unease settled in his stomach.

“I know.” Carmella nibbled on the cake. She followed Mike’s gaze. “But you know- you know Scott?”

Mike focused his attention back to her. “Mhm.” 

She nodded, eyes welling with tears. Mike assumed the worst. “What did he do?”

“Nothing.” She smiled, eyes glued to the floor. “I think that is the problem.”

The two sat in their melancholy comfort. Neither of them belonged there, and neither of them knew what to do with their hands. So they mildly conversed about the flavors of cakes upon the table. Mike wanted to selfishly pry, but he knew that if he opened this floodgate of her tears would be more probable. He just responded with a comforting “I know what you mean” and left it at that.

“Carmella!” A man called. He was bulky and angry, standing conductivity besides Mr. Favor a few feet away. “Come introduce yourself.”

Sheepishly, Carmella placed the cake in Mike’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike.” She smiled before treading off to the two older men. Realization hit him with a burning sense of dread.

She was the mail-in bride.


	9. Elephants in Empty Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott addresses his past. Mike becomes burdened.
> 
> TW- Heavy drug use. Implied predatory behavior to minors

Feeling the hot gaze of Mr. Favor, Mike decided to go looking for the root of his problems. He excused himself lamely as he weaved through the crowds, eyes searching for either Scott or the handsome man that he was last seen with.

“Fuck this.” Mike mumbled after nearly dodging a conversation with what he assumed to be a priest. He felt incredibly alone and empty as he made his way up the staircase, deciding to just gather his scattered clothes and dignity from Scott’s room and call a cab back home. The comfort of the slums seemed immensely welcoming right now.

Lost in thought, Mike nearly collided with a body that rushed from Scott’s room. “Sorry.” Mike apologized before realizing it was the handsome man from before. “Oh.”

The man flushed and slithered past Mike, disheveled tie in hand.

Mike became deathly afraid of what lay behind the familiar door of Scott’s room. He wasn’t an idiot, but for some reason he hoped to be as he pressed down on the door handle. He prayed for weak context-clues as he pushed forwards. The room was dark.

Scott sat shirtless on the edge of his bed, shuffling his pants around his waist. He whipped his head up and softened once he realized who stood in the doorway. “Mikey.” He hoarsely called. He turned his head back to his zipper.“Close the door.”

Mike stood silent but followed instructions. He felt fickle in his feelings about this situation and couldn’t decide if this assumption of sexuality was a good thing or not. But it felt wrong. It all felt so wrong. 

“I fulfilled my promise, Mike.” Scott said, trying to break the uneasy tension between them as Mike neared the bed. He tilted his head to the bedside table where a tiny bag of powder lay. “Got you that blow.”

Mike picked up the bag and sat down gently on the warm bed- trying not to think too much about what had just occurred there. His back was to Scott as he thumbed the bag, whispering. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Scott was silent. The elephant in the room stomped loudly, commanding at least an ounce of recognition from either of them. They didn’t address anything, however, until Scott had his pants back on and placed a book on the bed. He took the coke from Mike and sprinkled it on the hard surface of the beaten dictionary. Mike had rid himself of his shoes and jacket.

“How long have you been doing this?” Mike asked after the two lay back on the crumpled sheets with powdered noses. They were drifting through an ecstatic but dreamy high, eyes focused on the spinning ceiling. 

“Since I was thirteen.” Scott muttered through a similar dream-like wave. His voice was soft. “Teacher.”

“That’s why you transferred.” Mike felt like crying. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Please.” Scott closed his eyes. “Creeps are everywhere, right? On the hill, they just live that lifestyle openly. Their wealth protects them.” 

Mike exhaled and counted the breaths between them. He felt so empty and powerless against the cards life dealt them both. Scott didn’t deserve any of it.

“I was scared for you tonight, though.” Scott said suddenly, opening his eyes and looking over. Mike did the same and watched as Scott became more sporadic. “I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”

“I can take care of myself.” Mike lied. Scott’s eyes softened and he smiled small, pushing air through his nose in humor. He lifted a hand and fondled Mike’s hair, igniting a foreign feeling that warped in Mike’s chest, causing him to feel sick. Scott’s face dropped at the sight.

“Stop that.” Mike inched away, overwhelmed. 

"Hey..."

“I don’t need you. I don’t need you to take care of me. Stop.” 

Mike was crying now. This type of vulnerability was always met with shame in Mike’s experiences, and he was now nervously trying to prove his strength and independence. Mike needed this type of protection when he was a child, when he was growing, when he was the most timid. His mother and father had failed him. He knew Scott would eventually fail him too, and he hated it. He hated how secure Scott made him feel. He hated how safe he felt in his hold. He hated Scott Favor. 

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Mike,”

“Please don’t say my name.” Mike mumbled helplessly. “I hate how it sounds. I hate it.”

Scott had pulled Mike into a loving embrace while they went back and forth pleading, one hand trailing against his shaking friend’s back while the other gripped his hair. Mike cried silently into the warm space of Scott’s neck, nuzzling himself deeper into safety he provided. Scott’s heart broke at the feeling of tears, and he spoke raw words that even he didn’t even believe. “It’s okay to need people, Mike.” 

“No. No.” Mike pulled his head away but remained tightly held against Scott’s chest. The two looked down at each other, a-thousand words spilling between them. There was a mutual gleam in both of their eyes. 

“It's okay.” Scott whispered needily. They moved slowly and suspended as Scott reassured them both. “It’s okay.”

Mike was the first to act upon emotion, lips brushing Scott’s in a tentative leap. It was barely a kiss- just a graze of tender and open mouths that succumbed to a reaction of pure admiration- but it was enough to send them both into a sparkling high off of love and drugs. Mike’s hands traveled reactively, igniting a small little flicker in Scott’s loins that made him flinch in realization. Cracking out of Mike’s elusive commands that grew in passion, he pulled back and exhaled soundly. What did he just do.

“Sorry.” Mike spoke first, shaking against Scott’s embrace. His heart thumped so incredibly loudly and he felt like an absolute jackass. The tears never did stop.

“I only have sex with a guy for money.” Scott said matter of factly, voice incredibly low and quiet. Mike’s heart dropped. He lay silent and Scott continued, every word sounding more and more like he was trying to convince himself- not Mike. “Men can’t love each other.”

Then what was this, Mike thought. What am I feeling.

The two would fall asleep like this- with tears etching their faces in a high that crashed down in waves. As he drifted down, Scott came to a conclusion that the fragile boy in his grasp was a boy he would break. Scott couldn't keep any of these promises he had lovingly reassured.

And Scott Favor hated himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a really tender moment for me to write. i really hope you all enjoyed.
> 
> i will be putting trigger warnings in front of every chapter that needs it- but please know i will never go into full detail of scott's assault. if i didn't warn something correctly, please let me know. stay safe and stay loved.


	10. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I could be another fool or an exception to the rule  
> You tell me the morning after
> 
> \- Elliott Smith, "Say Yes"

Everything’s gonna be alright, she had said.

She fondled his hair with petting strokes, sharp fingernails trailing across his temple. His hair, similar to the color of the wheat that rolled in hills behind him, moved softly by the force of her hand and by the fluttering of the crisp breeze. He knew he should be hearing the rustle of wind or the cackle of mountain bluebirds in the corner of this repeating memory, but all he could register was the kind voice waltzing into his heart. Everything’s gonna be just fine. I know you’re sorry. I know.

Mike’s gut wrenched. He shuddered in remorse. 

Stop. Her hand receded. Stop that. 

Wake up. 

He opened his eyes. The room was lit with a soft glow of dawn- a violet haze touching shadows. He smelt Scott before he felt him, a warm sense of familiarity that brought up last night's events in correlation. Scott’s body no longer held Mike close to his own but instead sprawled itself against the bed in all sorts of directions. He was a pretty sleeper, with soft snores and patient eyelids resting in a state of gentleness. His eyes landed on his parted mouth, pink lips exhaling warm breath. Mike stared at him for a bit before realization struck him and he inched himself forwards.

Last night was simply a bad trip. Blame it on the drugs! He thought. Blame all the tear soaked dreams on the shady dustings encased in a ziplock bag by his side. He was certain Scott would either pretend not to remember or ignore it completely- which was perfectly fine by Mike. He didn’t want to talk about how he had kissed Scott or how Scott kissed him back or how there was a dark edging of deniability to the entire encounter. He didn’t want to talk about it because it was the drugs fucking fault- that’s all. 

Scott sighed lightly in his sleep, a shift of shoulder blades as his lungs took in air. Mike glanced back down to find his heart lurching at the memory of Scott’s idle hands pulling at his hair, yearning to be closer. Scott was a bad liar. He couldn’t pretend.

Mike decided he was suffocating.

Trying not to wake the culprit of his despair, Mike picked up his clothes from the floor in hushed movements. He briefly thought about leaving some sort of note for Scott but decided against it. He would figure it all out, he was a Favor after all.

Mike creeped down the empty stairs with his beaten shoes in hand. The house felt haunted, ghosts of last night's grand party still socializing in the corner of Mike’s memory. No more soft lighting from chandeliers or spilling glasses of amber champagne, just dim sunrises through peaking curtains and hangover headaches. In any other situation Mike would adore this melancholic atmosphere, but not this morning. No- this morning he himself was haunted. So he exited the house without looking back.

Outside, a gardener with green overalls shoveled near the rich rose pathway. He was older, a wise looking man. He turned his attention to Mike. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Mike croaked in surprise. He didn’t expect anyone to be up this early. For some reason he thought he was all alone.

“One of mister Scott’s friends?” The gardener asked as he carried on with his digging. Mike walked forwards, passing him. 

“Sure.” Was all Mike responded with, wondering how many disheveled boys crept out of this house in order to make this man assume Mike’s affiliation with Scott.

“Need a cab?” The gardener asked politely. 

Mike stopped. “Yeah, actually.”

“Knew it.” The gardener sighed, rising. “They always do. Stay here, I’ll go phone one.”

Mike felt like he had been slapped. There was a “they”, a number of boys like him exiting the residency in the early morning. He stood awkwardly in waiting, feeling yet again like a whore in the eyes of God.

A few minutes passed before a yellow cab parked itself outside the iron gates, rumbling in a patient wait. Mike thanked the smirking gardener meekly, cheeks flushed in embarrassment at the knowing look in the older man’s eyes. He climbed into the cab. “Down the hill. Please.”

Scott would wake up in a pittering silence.

With a familiar loneliness he’d always gotten the morning after, Scott came crashing down into an anxious flood of rapid memories. He ran his hand across the crumpled sheets in a weak attempt at closure, hoping to grasp a tender thought. His hand was left empty however, but the bed was still warm.

“Mike?” Silence. He sat up and called louder. “Mike?”

He didn’t know what he was expecting- but it was what he deserved. He knew that there had to be a conversation between them- one of muddled feelings and false reasonings. What had Scott said? Men can’t love each other? The knife of his lie twisted in his gut and he was once again left breathless at the realization of the hurt he had caused, because Mike had felt so good beneath Scott’s traveling hands. Too good to simply be a misguided tilt of sobriety. 

So instead Scott sat in bed, huddled beneath sheets. He wouldn’t move until Monday morning, denial eventually blurring his sight.


	11. End of Autumn

November in Portland was poetically quiet. Storefronts changed faceless mannequins to sell bundled collections of waterproof boots and double-lined parkas, cold rain splashed up the heels of bustling pedestrians as they shuffled to their commutes, and cities were no longer full of life in red and orange hues but instead painted itself in a dark brown palette. Soon, the parks would be barren, roads would be icy, and tiny snowflakes would litter the forecast of The Portland Times. November held on tightly to whatever remained of autumn in hopes of keeping the past alive.

And so did Mike.

Scott had retreated back to his clique of fellow polo-wearing confidants the next Monday. Neither of them had acknowledged each other since the following weekend, leaving the elephant in the room to sit softly in patience. They shared one intimate glance, however, through opposite sides of the hall one afternoon. Scott was leaning against a locker with his bag upon his shoulder, laughing outrageously loud at a joke a boy with shiny shoes had made. Through his fit his eyes travelled to Mike, who had turned his head at the sound of the familiar laugh in an act of bad habitary. Scott’s face fell and his posture tensed, which bitterly struck Mike as an action louder than any previous bombs they had inflicted on eachother, so he lowered his gaze and turned to class. Scott opened his mouth to call after him, but the words ripped his throat in half, so he turned his attention back to his father-approved peers and ignored the banging in his chest. 

End of Autumn, early winter.

Mike’s miserable attitude towards the whole loss had affected his usual deliquintary, thus a pink slip was slapped onto his desk after one too many bitter curses. Mike shoved it down his front pocket and sighed.

“Where’s the fat man?” He asked that Friday, passing Gary on his way to his own seat. A mean old man who peered above rectangular glasses was sitting in Mr. Pigeon’s desk, igniting a speculated atmosphere of uncertainty. Mr. Harding was written on the ashy chalkboard behind him. 

“Mr. Pigeon,” The substitute began, picking up the conversation through a scolding voice as Mike turned. “Will not be suprivising this class any longer.”

“The fuck?” Gary asked, sitting up in his creaking chair. “Why?”

“Where’s BOB?” Budd lurched from the back, slamming his hands on the table. A few whoops followed.

“Quiet!” Mr. Harding hushed. The room listened in defeat and Mike made his way to his desk.

Mr. Harding, or hard-on as Gary muttered, listed off the new rules for room two fourteen. No eating, no sleeping (Mike cursed), no foul-mouthing and no auditory behavior. Despite this new authority, Mike shut his eyes and was undisturbed in his attempts at sleep. He wondered how long this poor bastard will last before the class sets Budd loose on him. 

The tension in the room was cut sharply by the pulling of the wooden door. Mike didn’t need to look up to know that it was Scott who entered quietly, making his way to the desk and handing in his paper. The usual shift in atmosphere always followed his entrances. 

“You’re late.” Mr. Harding grumbled.

“Sorry about that, sir.” 

Mike shifted himself closer to the window. The sound of Scotty’s voice was absent from Mike’s life for nearly a week, and the sudden reminder of its melodic tune brought him into an uncomfortable yearn. Eyes fell on him as Scott sat down, the entire room picking up on the fact that there was a complicated rift between them due to the tense atmosphere. Gary started to construct a joke about a lover's quarrel before being nipped by Harding’s shrewd voice, igniting a silence throughout the class.

The chances of sleep were now unobtainable. Mike was too anxious about the boy that fidgeted besides him. If Scott was so adamant about having nothing to do with him- then why had he chosen that seat? This powerplay made Mike squirm, so he tried everything in his power to ignore the sound of rustling paper coming from Scott’s desk. He was successful until a slight tap on Mike’s foot made his attempts powerless. He looked down.

Against his beaten and yellowing Converse lay a familiar rich shoe. It belonged to an obvious host, but Mike dare not look up. Instead he shifted his gaze to the side, trailing up the pants leg to a bended knee that tapped Mike’s shoe once more. Scott’s hand entered his frame of sight and with it a note, torn out and crumpled, suggested itself for Mike’s taking. 

Looking up to make sure the teacher was busy, Mike carefully took the paper in between his fingers. He sat up and cleared his throat, unfolding the note until Scott’s clever handwriting presented itself in black ink: ‘We need to talk’

Mike felt like he was going to throw up. He must have looked it, too, because suddenly Scott lurched forwards. “Mr. Harding?”

“What?” The old man croaked tiredly.

“Mike isn’t feeling well.” He explained, ounces of worry etching his face. “Can I walk him down to Nurse Elle’s?”

Mike, catching on, eased into his panic. Mr. Harding sighed at the sight, opening his mouth in protest before Scott interjected.

“My father would be worried.” He pressed cleverly. Silence.

“Fine.” 

“Thank you, sir. Come on.”

Mike sat up and tried his best to look faint. “Is it Aids?” Gary whispered distastefully as they made their way to the door. Scott shot a rare look that prevented any more jokes, but it didn’t matter. They all knew.

With his eyes glued to the floor, Mike trailed behind Scott until the door clicked successfully behind them. He picked his head up to find Scott staring, eyes flickering across his face like he was reading. They stood in silence, gazing at each other with muddled expressions, noticing small changes that weren’t there a week prior. They saw each other's dark circles, drawing up the conclusion that both of them were sleepless in stress. No longer feeling abandoned but instead responsible, Mike began to apologize before Scott interjected.

“Let’s go outside.” He said, voice low. 

The rain was lighting up now, a gentle sprinkle marking the asphalt of the school’s lot. Bundled against the biting cold, the two made their natural way underneath the bleachers by the track. That’s where all the burnouts went for privacy. 

Nervous about the outcome of this particular conversation, Mike asked weakly for a smoke. It was a simple gesture of habits that made both of them ease in familiarity. Scott dug out a pack and Mike got out his lighter, and for a second neither of them moved. Suspended in action, Scott bitterly remembered how he had lit both of their joints that one afternoon in his car. How gentle and nervous Mike looked, eyes fluttered shut in an attempt to prevent eye contact under their close proximity. It was such a tender moment between them that he wished he could do it now. Somehow make it all okay again. But he knew that under these circumstances it would be cruel.

“I have my own light.” Was all he said, flashing a silver Zippo. 

“Oh.” Mike felt foolish. “Right.”

Scott handed Mike his cigarette quickly, not daring to linger too long in contact. They remained silent and counted exhales as their own respectable clouds of smoke wrapped out of their mouths. Mike distracted himself by fixating on the steel traps of the complicated bleacher system before Scott interjected. 

“My father...” He started, voice chipped. Mike looked up to find Scott staring at his shoes that scuffed the dirt beneath him. Here we go. “My father told me that you spoke with Carmella.”

Mike looked at him. He wasn’t expecting that. “I did, yeah.”

Scott nodded and took a drag. Mike felt like he should say something more, so he continued.

“Italian, right?” He asked simply, remembering her blue dress and pinned hair.

“Yeah.” 

“She’s nice. Pretty.”

“Yeah she’s pretty.” Scott looked up. His eyes were glossy and his face was stricken in a suspended verge. “We’re going steady.”

There were a million different ways Scott could have eased this conversation. A simple explanation of sexuality was all Mike really needed to hear from him, but Scott couldn't visualize it in a way he’d understand. All he knew was subtle glances between smoke, warm hands in pockets, stolen kisses in drifting highs and seeing himself be well with another being. But he also knew the tightrope of memories tipped into suffocation, shushes between cries, and money being thrown from stranger’s wallets. He couldn’t have one without the other. So he chose the route of safety instead of that blasphemous risk, hoping Mike understood. Hoping that Mike knew he loved him but couldn’t let himself be the lover. 

But Mike knew. Oh, how Mike knew. He would never be enough. So he just nodded slowly and blinked fast. “Alright.”

Scott pressed. “Alright?”

It was Mike’s court now. His rules. 

“You can hurt me.” Mike said after a brief thought, looking up. He was trying everything in his power not to cry. “You can hurt me- and that’s fine. But I won’t let you hurt her through me.”

Scott bitterly understood his ultimatum of commitment. No more romping mind that drifted towards Mike’s suggestive gaze. No more stolen glances, no more loving touches, no more. The premise of affection that their entire friendship was built upon would crumble, but Mike couldn’t take it any longer. He would rather die than be touched by a man he couldn’t hold, because he knew that if Scott ever fell into his hands he would never let him go. 

But in the end they both knew that it was all a bluff. All of it.

“Fine.” Scott wavered. Mike shuddered in a realization that he was now a second choice. A few tears spilt over and Scott watched, horrified.

“Okay.” Mike muttered, voice horse. He looked up helplessly, cries growing into an empty and abandoning cry. “One more. Please- one more?”

Scott walked over, no hesitation edging his movements as he closed the space between them. Mike let out an immediate cry as Scott engulfed him into an embrace of everything unsaid. They ran their hands up and down eachother’s frame, clawing for a warmth that could never be met in these conditions. It felt like a goodbye. This was goodbye.

Mike pressed his face deeply into Scott’s neck. He was weak, he truly was weak. Already he was breaking his promise of unfulfillment. Already he was a liar. They both were. 

So he pried himself away urgently, ignoring Scott’s strong hands that attempted to beckon him back. Mike’s twisted face, flushed and tear soaked, shook from side to side as he stopped Scott’s advances. Scott swallowed, face growing cold to prevent his own tears.

“I’m sorry.” Was all Mike whispered. He wrapped his shaking hands around his own arms, holding himself in an attempt of absent comfort. “I’m sorry.”


	12. Blissful is the Fool

Mike woke to the familiar pounding of a hangover.

He lay half naked in loose boxer shorts, spread theatrically across a bed of an unfamiliar room. He didn’t recognize the green crumpled sheets or the smell lingering on his nose, and with this unfamiliarity came a creeping sense of dread gnawing at his stomach. He glanced to his side. “Shit.”

A boy lay naked besides him, an ugly pool of drool seeping onto the pillow from his gaping mouth. He snored quite loudly into the quietness of the room, and Mike wondered how he had managed to sleep at all last night due to the noise. He recognized the guy as a quieter kid in year eleven, Jaiden, who just so happened to be an attendee of Gary’s end-of-the-semester-party last night, too.

Mike didn’t remember any of it.

He found his clothes in littered pieces by the bed and dressed slowly, trying to ignore the painful ache of his head and lower body. Whatever happened last night was rough and probably sloppy, most drunk dates are, and the thought of himself desperately underneath someone he’s barely spoken to brought on another level of queasiness. He tipped towards the door.

“Who’s Scott?”

Mike stopped dead in his tracks- suddenly aware that the snoring stopped. He turned to find Jaiden wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. 

“What?” Mike asked hoarsely, voice cracking. Oh god. How loud was he last night?

“You kept saying ‘Scott, Scott’,” Jaiden emphasized, yawning. “Ex or something?”

Mike felt like he was going to throw up right then and there. How embarrassing - oh - how embarrassing this all was. He blinked a couple times before raising his cracking voice. “I’m going to get some water.”

Mike creeped out of the room and down the stairs, shaking whatever had just happened off of his shoulders. Clumps of bodys lay on the ground, passed out with either red cups in their hands or red lipstick on their necks. Mike found himself muttering apologies as he stepped over his peers, wondering how on Earth Gary knew all of these people. 

The kitchen was especially messy, with cans on the counters and empty pizza boxes on the tile floor. Mike jumped at the sight of the devil himself picking up cans with one hand and placing them into a large garbage bag with the other. The devil turned and smiled. 

“Have fun last night?” Scott asked into the empty kitchen. He focused back to cleaning.

“No.” Mike wavered. 

“You look it.”

Mike ran a hand through his hair, embarrassingly aware of how messy it must look right now. He cleared his throat and continued his task to find water, filling up one of the empty cups with the tap. He heard footsteps and turned around to find Jaiden, with clothes bundled in his hand, slinking out the front door. 

Scott turned towards Mike with a smug look. Mike told him where to go.

It was December now- nearly two months since Scott and Mike’s metaphorical goodbye. Their return to a friendly routine was a slow process, with bumps of painful yearning along the way that neither of them addressed. Blissful is the fool, and as they neared Christmas it was becoming easier. 

But easier wasn’t the right word. It was just a muted pain. Scott had to pretend that he didn’t think of Mike whenever he was intimate with Carmella, and Mike had to pretend he didn’t pick up on the clues of their relationship: purple edgings on their necks, puffy lips, disheveled sweaters. Obviously Mike wasn’t as good of a suppressor as Scott, since he was oh so eager to call out his name when beneath someone in that context. Drunk actions are the ones of sober thoughts, right? He finished off his water and reached for the tap again.

Scott tried to pick up conversation once more, treading dangerously close between small talk and intimate sex inquiries. “Was he a good lay?”

“Don’t remember.” Mike said shamefully into the cup, eyes on the floor. The taste in his mouth was dissipating. He changed the topic of conversation. “Did Carmella ever show up?”

“No.” Scott said casually. “She doesn’t like parties.”

“Italians.” Mike joked. A throb echoed in his head and he winced, inducing Scott to put down the trash bag and start rummaging through a medicine cabinet near the hall. Mike wanted to protest, but he knew that in the end it would take him forever to figure out Gary’s complicated Tylonal routine.

Scott came back and placed the two tiny pills on the counter. He refilled Mike’s already empty cup once more while he spoke. “You know,” he said over his shoulder. “I was thinking about throwing my own party.”

“Really?” Mike said, popping the two pills in his mouth. “Daddy would allow that?”

“Daddy,” Scott emphasized. Mike chortled. “Will be on a business trip in Boise. Idaho.”

Mike hummed softly into the cup. “I got family in Idaho.”

“He’s leaving next weekend.” Scott shrugged, ignoring Mike’s mutters. “I have the house for it.”

“House for what?” Gary entered the picture now, disheveled and probably still drunk. His pants were loose around his frame and his shirt was missing. 

“I want to throw a party of my own.” Scott smirked as Gary picked up a half-empty Pabst Blue Ribbon, sloshed it around, and threw it back. “I like big parties.”

“Uh huh.” Gary noted, obviously not as interested. He turned towards Mike. “Hey- were you with Jaiden?”

Scott’s eyes landed curiously on him. Mike cleared his throat and tensed. “Yes.”

Gary, witnessing this whole interaction, whooed. “Yeah, Mike! Never took you for a slut.”

Scott opened his mouth in defense of Mike’s honor, but to prevent any further teasing, Mike came to his own. “Well, you knew about the senior. Last year?”

This was news to Scott. Mike glanced up at him. 

“Oh shit!” Gary laughed. “Yeah- I forgot about him. What ended up setting you two off?”

Mike still held his gaze on Scott, feeling uncharacteristically in control. “He started using H.”

“That’s right. That’s right.” Gary nodded. “Poor guy. He’s under the bridge now.”

Scott stood awkwardly, riding out the little bump of jealousy that formed in the pit of his stomach unsuccessfully. How stupid was he to assume that Mike never slept around? And why was Mike so smug, staring up at him with a knowing sense of overpowerment? 

Deflect. “Next Saturday...” Scott straightened his back. “Let’s have the party next Saturday.”

“Fine by me.” Gary yawned. “What’s the party favor?”

“I’ll have plenty of blow.” Scott suggested, remembering too late what exactly that drug meant to them. He looked down in a horrid realization, watching as Mike twitched in discomfort. The memories of that drug will forever be tainted by that night- especially since Scott had a very specific and unconventional way of buying it. Neither of them had talked about it before and they didn’t want to start now.

“I’ll bring the booze.” Was all Gary said, for the first time he remained oblivious to the tension. They all sat in a silence for a bit.

Mike stood suddenly. “I need a shower.”

“You know where it is.” Gary sighed as Mike trudged up the stairs. He turned towards a rigid Scott. “That kid.”

“Yeah.” Scott shook off that terrible feeling. “That kid.”

“You’ve only known him for what- two months?”

“Three.”

“Three months? Well...” Gary smiled to himself, voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned across the counter. “You know what happened to his mom, right?”

Scott focused his memory on the brief conversation they had shared in the bathroom. Mike talked about his mother in the past tense, but that was all he ever brought up. He had talked lovingly about her but that admiration was tainted by something dark within the topic. Scott assumed the worst and curiously stepped into Gary's trap. “No.”

Gary sneered. “She killed a guy.”

“Fuck off.”

“No! I’m serious!” Gary was oddly proud of this. He leaned closer. “She killed a guy and blew town. Mike had to move here with his brother in order to get away.” 

Scott suddenly felt ill. He didn’t like this specific style of canardness, one that was so wild and so outrageous that it had to be true. That detail of dark hereditary felt like something Mike should have told him on his own time. “I never took you for a gossip.”

“It’s not gossip! Everyone knows.”

Scott’s eyes traveled to the stairwell. All these dark secrets of the past showing up, he realized that he truly didn’t know a single thing about Mike. And for some unknown reason, that felt like betrayal. “I didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a little filler chapter for the moment! sorry for all the editing- ignore me


	13. Gold Star, Juliet

“You know I do not like parties.”

“I know, but I do.”

Carmella sighed lightly. She leaned her head against Scott’s shoulder and continued to play with his scuffed hands, lacing her delicate fingers between his tougher ones. She mumbled something in her native tongue but Scott ignored her.

“I already invited people.” He quipped, flipping a page of a tattered novel with his free hand. Despite his flickering gaze glued to the yellowing pages, his mind was far, far away from these paragraphs, and even farther away from the naked girl clinging to his arm.

“Can’t we just watch television tonight?” She muttered, ignoring his attitude by pressing her lips against his hands. She inhaled softly, catching the faint smell of Scott’s pot that lingered on his fingers. Her face fell in realization. 

Drawing his attention back down into the present, Scott watched as Carmella dropped his hands and looked away. Sad little dots started connecting in her head. “Are you stoned?” She asked.

Only when Carmella pulled away from him did he answer, confused and droopy. “I can’t smoke anymore?” 

“You only ever call me over when you’ve been smoking.” She sighed, reaching for her scattered clothes. “Or drinking. And then we fight and then I cry.”

“But we’re not fighting.” Scott stated, obviously missing her point. He set the book down as she grew more sporadic.

“We are going too if I stay.” Carmella pulled her head through a shirt and settled it across her bare chest. “I am sick of crying.” 

Scott laughed, a dry exasperation, trying to ease his slipping annoyance that wasn’t dulled by the drugs. “Then why do you keep coming back?” 

Carmella turned. He wasn’t trying to make her feel useless- it was a genuine question. But under these circumstances it felt like the most idiotic thing he has ever said. “Because I have too.”

And that was that. Every argument they had eventually switched back onto the topic of this unfortunate arrangement that they had no choice in. Carmella knew that Scott only called her in the first place because of his father, and Scott knew that Carmella only lived in the States in order to fulfill a business deal. What Carmella didn’t know was that this relationship had more layers of compromise for Scott- who used her as physical proof of unblinking heterosexuality. She was a distraction. 

Perhaps that’s why they were so short-tempered with one another. 

“I don’t know why you care so much.” He stated accusingly as Carmella swiped a palm under her spilling eye. He hated making people cry, so in a weak attempt to make her feel better, he brought up what he thought was obvious. “You don’t even love me.”

“But I do.” She chuckled miserably, looking at him with a desperate plea. “But I think I fall in love with… an idea.”

Her broken English reminded them both of the real reason she was here: obligation. In love with an idea that meant different things for everyone: They’re parents love for an arranged marriage, Carmella’s love for a righteous man, and Scott’s love for a scape-goat. That sad despair Carmella wore so well was one Scott saw in his reflection, and it comforted him to know that they shared at least one small thing. He looked away from her. “I love you, too.”

Carmella dropped her shoulders as she stood half-dressed and weepy. They shared a pitiful smile that fell back into a frown and relished in the silence, reflecting upon all the sacrifices they were making. Carmella was risking so much and Scott had become a ghost of who he could be. At least they were getting sex out of it. At least they were on the same page. 

But it didn’t hurt any less.

“I think I’m just going to leave.” Carmella said quietly. 

“Sure.” Scott shrugged, swallowing the persistent lump in his throat. He wanted to reassure her to stay, invite her to come down anytime tonight because that’s what a good boyfriend should do, but he knew that she would pick up on the lie. So he watched her make her way towards the door instead.

Downstairs, a yellow Portland cab pulled away from the Favor residency as Mike made his way up the rose lined path. He was suspended in mid-knock when Carmella stepped out, flinching back in surprise. She looked him up and down from behind the door. “Oh.”

“Hey, Mel.” Mike said weakly. 

“Hello.” She smiled back, reassured in his presence. Good, timid, and loveable Mike was everything Scott wasn’t, making her feel warm whenever she interacted with him. She found comfort in his constant presence that always seemed to trail behind Scott’s. 

“Is Scott in?” He asked dumbly, ignoring her flushed and sweat-soaked skin that alluded to an obvious answer. 

“Yes.” She looked behind her and then back to Mike, a weird feeling forming in her stomach. “In his room.”

“Good, good.” Mike sniffed. He looked at his shoes.

“Mike…” Carmella began, inspecting him with a careful eye. Mike hummed back and looked up, watching as her face studied his. A small, dimmed lightbulb went off in her head. “Nevermind.”

“Everything alright?” He asked sincerely, noticing that her face was misted with a few remaining tears. Anger buzzed his fingertips. “Did Scott do that?”

“No.” She lied. “No. Just me.” 

She excused herself and wished him well, pecking a small culturally accepted peck on his cheek as she pressed goodbye. Mike loved it when she said her goodbyes with a kiss: it felt so sincere. So real. But what Mike remained oblivious too was the fact that she was smarter than she looked. 

She had figured it all out. 

Well, she suspected it. And a brief suspicion was all she needed to start connecting those dots. 

She felt more used than ever. 

Upstairs, Mike opened the door to find Scott rummaging through his closet. “Hey.”

Scott turned, buttoning up a plain and faded flannel he had stolen from a fellow burnout. “Hi.” 

Mike stood awkwardly against the wall, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. He wanted to ask about Carmella and what led to her tearful flee, but by the look on Scott’s knitted brow he decided against it. Instead he delved into the details of tonight's party, asking questions like when everyone was arriving and so on. Scott had answered everything shortly, obviously not quite focusing on the conversation honestly. Mike just decided to shut up at that point and make his way to the bookshelf as Scott finished dressing. 

“Can I borrow this?” He held up a particularly bruised ‘King Henry IV’. It was resting on its side, discarded at the bottom of the tall stack of Shakespeare’s works.

Scott squinted then turned his attention back to the buttons. “You can keep it. Haven’t picked that up in ages.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

Mike inspected the book fondly. His freshman performance in the high school's production of the play had left him terrified of theatres ever since, but there was also a beautiful nostalgia that came along with it. He mumbled a few lines under his breath, testing to see if the memory of King Henry had survived two years. 

It had. 

“Hm?” Scott asked. Mike looked around sheepishly, not meaning to be heard. 

“Oh, uh. I was just seeing if I remembered anything.” He raised the book and Scott’s face softened in realization. He raised his eyebrows, edging Mike to continue the line. “ ‘I imitate the sun, who doth permit the base of contagious clouds.’” 

Scott looked impressed, lips raising into a gentle smirk as memories of Mike’s performance came tumbling back to him. Scott had adored Mike in that role- and he never fully understood why Mike insisted it was just for extra credit. He obviously had a talent for it. So, expecting a story, Scott sat down on the bed and leaned back on his palms in his characteristic way. “Well, go on.” 

Mike sighed. “‘Who doth permit the base of contagious clouds, smother up his beauty…’” His face scrunched. “That’s all I remember.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“Fuck you.” Mike laughed, defeated. “Let’s see… ‘I defy you, stars’!”

Scott paused for a second before he caught the joke. “That’s not King Henry.”

“No,” Mike sat down on the bed besides him. “That’s Romeo. You passed.”

“Gold star, Juliet.” Scott mumbled, smiling back at Mike. Physically and intellectually speaking, they hadn’t been this close in months. It felt good to banter again, going back and forth and back and forth in a tumble of soft words that were strong in whit. It’s what they did best, and for lack of a better word, a love language.

Mike, wrapped up in this warm and easy feeling of the past, pressed on. “Do you remember what you said to me about that play? First day we met?”

Scott twinged. This could go very badly for both of them, considering Scott’s first thoughts pertaining to Mike were ones of flirtatious undertones. So he lied. “Not really.”

“You said you liked my voice. As Henry.” Mike remembered quietly, not realizing that he might be overstepping. “You said you liked my voice and that I should use it.”

“Sounds like something I’d say.” Scott swallowed after a brief thought. He didn’t need Mike to spell it out for him-he remembered that moment clearly: The way Mike looked at him, with big eyes filled with admiration of finally being understood. That was a look Scott had been chasing ever since. 

“Anyway, it meant a lot.” Mike muttered, watching Scott’s face carefully in an awkward realization that he definitely overstepped. “To me.”

The two looked at each other in a suspended action of self-awareness, ignoring any previously laid rules or fights they had to prevent this sort of atmosphere from happening. Right now it was just Shakespeare in the dark. 

“I meant it.” Scott reassured. He didn’t even realize he was audibly speaking until he watched Mike’s eyes soften in admiration at the words. There it was.

Space didn’t really mean anything to them anymore. A natural pull, magnetic, drew them closer.

“I know.” Mike breathed. “I know you did.”

The doorbell suddenly struck harshly in interruption, slapping them in a harsh realization. Mike cleared his throat and let Scott attend to the door downstairs, deciding that he would get impossibly drunk tonight.

What else could he have done to dull this ache?


	14. Not Your Burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW- harsh language

Mike couldn't bring himself to drink.

Slightly buzzed, he placed his half-full beer can on an expensive marble counter and cursed softly. It was one thing to be carelessly tipsy on your own time- but to be the only sober body at a highschool party was a completely different ballpark of isolation. Around him, peers swayed and cried and whooped to the thumping beat beneath the floorboards. Mike felt no rhythm.

Scott’s party was a booming success. Portland schools have never seen such a diverse crowd, with bums and the one-percenters mingling under the same keg. Even some college kids had wondered in, treading across the toilet-papered lawn to obtain free party favors. 

However, no one has seen the host since the party’s wake.

Mike maneuvered himself out of the living room and into the hazy-kitchen, where a more mellow crowd had formed. Among them was Digger, a burnout whose personality reflected more similarly to Mike than to Gary. He waved him over.

“Hey Waters.” Digger murmured softly. A joint rested in his fingers and he pried another drag from its paper cast. “Long time no see, man”

“Hey.” Mike leaned up against the counter across from the boy. He briefly thought about asking for a hit, but willfully accepted sobriety instead. “Scotty around?”

“Ha,” Digger laughed. “Man- I’ve been in here all night. You’re the only face I’ve seen.”

“Figured.” Mike smiled. He glanced across the room to the LED clock above the stove. 12:01.

“Why, you in trouble or something?” Digger asked, eyebrows quipped above his head and a knowing look in his red rimmed eyes. Mike felt a little uneasy. He knew he was helpless and everyone expected it, but he wished they weren’t so upfront about the whole thing. 

“No. Just haven’t seen him since the party started.”

“That was, like, forever ago, man.”

“Yeah. Four hours.”

“He could be anywhere by now. You know Scott.”

Mike sighed through his nose because boy, did he. 

A girl had wandered into the sparse kitchen, laughing outrageously loud as a steadier boy led her across the tile. They stopped in front of Digger. “Yo Digs,” The boy slurred. “Got any for the girl and I?”

Digger nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a discreet bag. He shook the boy’s hand in transaction.

“Aren’t you worried he’s gonna try something with that girl?” Mike asked quietly as the couple made their way out of the room, assumingly upstairs where all the tangles happened. Digger flashed the crisp twenty that now rested in his palm, shrugging. Mike sighed once more. 

“You need to chill out, man.” Digger began, bursting into yet another muddled story. “You always, like, have that pitiful expression on your face. It bums me out to see you quiet all the time. Bums me out.”

Mike knew he should have felt offended or at least a little self-aware at that, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. There was no point in faking pleasantries at his expense. Perhaps that’s why he found ease in Scott. Because he never had to pretend. 

“I think that’s why the guys accepted Scott so easily.” He continued. Mike lifted his head, curious. Digger took another drag. “When he first showed up in detention, we were all afraid he was gonna rat us out to his daddy. Get us all suspended somehow. Who trusts a trust-fund, right? But, man, the look on your face whenever you’re with him… made us all feel better about the whole thing. If you felt safe, we were safe.”

Now Mike wished he was drunk. Perhaps those words would’ve landed easier on him if he was hazed, because - God - how heavy their impact was. He nodded slowly, voice dropping into a mumble of familiar vulnerability. “I think I trust too easily.”

Digger noticed this change in Mike’s demeanor and proceeded to comfort. “You see the good in people and accept their worst. Traits like those are rare, man. Hold onto it.” 

“But I’m going to hurt myself.”

“If someone takes a person like you for granted, it’s their fault to be so careless with your love. It’s not your burden.”

Mike looked up and Digger was grinning, red rimmed eyes squinted in a smile. Some people, like Scott, become duller and stupider with drugs. But Digger seemed to become more wise and trusting. Mike liked his high much more. 

Thanking him for the words and the conversation he probably won’t remember, Mike made his way out of Digger’s smoke signal and continued his search for Scott. This big house offered lots of places for him to hide, but there was an obvious room Mike hadn’t checked yet. A part of him wished he was anywhere but.

Little to Mike’s knowledge, the intimate experience of Shakespeare completely sent Scott into a spiral. After greeting everyone at the door earlier this evening, he proceeded to take two six-packs upstairs and lock himself in his room as a form of protest. The last thing he wanted was to be seen or perceived. 

So he chugged the alcohol gradually, ending his four-hour long bender by sitting on the floor with his legs outstretched and head tipping on his shoulders. He had been able to hear the joyous party he was supposed to be hosting through the house’s walls, so he drowned it all out with a cracking record on his turntable. By the time Mike had climbed the stairs and knocked on his friends door, the album had spun its course. 

With a numb face and muted shame, Scott picked himself up. He stumbled across the room, edging by the walls that inhaled and exhaled with their own conscious breath. He swung open the door and leaned against the handle, eyes adjusting to the light as a familiar face blinked back at him. “Mikey.”

“Are you okay?” Mike asked almost immediately. Scott’s red face grew cold.

“Fine” He grumbled. “I’m fine.”

Mike shook his head and entered the dim room, pushing past Scott’s tipping body. He noticed the shuffled vinyls and empty bottles littered against the floor, and he sighed lightly at the realization that his suspicion of Scott’s whereabouts was correct. He muttered beneath his breath as he lifted the needle off the crackling record. “It smells like a bar in here.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Scott slurred. Mike bristled and turned back to find Scott shutting the door with a dark look in his eyes. “Do you not like that?”

Mike tried to find the humor in this display of ridiculous drunkenness, but the possibility of laughter was trumped by the overwhelming amount of unease. Something wasn’t right. 

It’s not your burden.

“Why would you throw a party only to get drunk alone?” Was all Mike asked, turning away from Scott’s gaze in an attempt to ignore the bait of argument. Scott’s eyes remained venomous but a chuckle escaped his lips.

“I hate all of this.” Scott smiled. “I hate it all.” 

Mike swallowed, letting a trickle of uncomfortability show in his glossy eyes. He let his gaze stay on the floor, a strike of boldness riveting through his meek bones. “Do you hate me, too?”

Scott softened. How come this always happened? How did he always manage to cross a line, shooting them both in the foot with his bitter words? He didn’t know how to stop himself and the lack of self control was terrifying. 

So he remained silent, letting Mike interpret that as a confirmation. 

“I’m sorry.” Mike said, voice cracking into a low pitch that was laced with regret. He should have read the signs and left Scott to his own wallow. He shouldn't have come to his room, he shouldn’t have come to his party, and he definitely shouldn’t have come back into Scott’s life. 

“I’m sorry.” Scott mocked, an anger stemming from self-hatred fizzling into what Mike assumed to be directed at him. But really, Scott was just sick of himself. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Stop.” Mike held his gaze defiantly now, ignoring the delicate tremble in his fingers. Scott opened his mouth in rebuttal.

Downstairs, a party-trick must have landed successfully because a chorus of shouts and whoos exploded from the floorboards. It suspended the tension, and Scott dropped his shoulders as his anger diluted into that familiar shame. 

“Great party, huh?” He asked into the quietness. “Great fucking party.”

Scott made his way over to his bed and slumped down, resting his spinning head in his hands. It always went to shit. 

Mike stood, debating on whether or not he should leave. He decided to prove himself the protector for once and walked over to the bedside. He sat down and urged Scott to stop pulling his hair, running a hand across his swaying friend’s back in a plea. It was almost like an instinct. 

“I love it when you touch me.” Scott muttered incoherently. Mike couldn’t make out the jumbled words, so he continued to run his hand up and down in soothing circles. He remained oblivious to the fact that it was eating Scott up inside. 

But now was the time for clarity.

“You’re so gentle.” Scott mumbled into his hands. Mike stopped moving but kept a hand where it lay as Scott continued. “You are so different from me. I love you for it.”

Mike didn’t know what to say besides the truth. “I know.”

Scott looked over at him, dropping his hands to rest on his knees as if to say “You know?”. Mike glanced away as that familiar yearn of reckless abandon flooded his senses. Scott leaned forwards, breath trickling with beer.

Mike couldn’t do this.

“I really want to kiss you, man.” Scott muttered into the inches of open space between them.

Here we go.

Mike began to cry quietly, face eerily calm as the tears broke out of their entrapment. Scott couldn’t grasp the weight of his honest words due to his drunken cloud, and instead grew into an anxious plea. “Please, Mike. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Mike whispered. He had taken his hand off of Scott’s back and was now cradling himself in that defensive position. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t mean it.”

“But I do.”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?” Mike stood, voice cracking into a shrill. He couldn’t do this anymore. “Do you want me or not?”

Scott’s expression shifted. Deflect. “We can’t just fuck around?”

“No.” Mike felt like his chest was going to explode. “I don’t think like you.”

Scott riddled himself with rage. His voice was deep, devoid of its usual charm as he took offense to Mike’s allusion. “And how exactly do I think, Mike?”

He bathed himself in a rare truth. “Like a liar.” 

Scott rose to his feet but Mike didn’t flicker. This off-handed surge of confidence beat him until his last breath, and he continued to press on despite the falling tears. “You’re a fucking liar, Scott.”

The next words to come out of Scott’s mouth in response seemed to come out of nowhere. The words he so often called himself in a negative connotation tumbled out into the open space as if they were pulled by a heart-string. He didn't mean it. He truly didn’t mean it. But they were said anyway.

“I’d rather be a liar than a faggot like you.”

Mike’s breath hitched. Scott’s eyes widened. 

Oh, how he didn’t mean it. How he wished he could make it all go away. 

But Mike felt himself crumple, his heart folding in on itself in a contorted realization that all his insecurities were true. A strangled sob leaped from his throat. Nonono.  


He thought of that promise he made in the car when they first met. Scott would show him the universe, but destroy the world in the process. He had blindly accepted this fate with no preparation of self-defense. Digger’s words basked themselves in truth: Mike overlooks people’s worst. He did it with his mother- who he always painted in the warm colors of maternity and love- but she was just a manic bitch who was too selfish to care for her sons. And now he’s doing it with Scott, a confident and caring person who ended up being just as fucked up in every sense of the word. It’s all catching up to him now. 

So he just sobbed, eerie little sounds of weakness tumbling out of him. Every breath and every moan haunting Scott, who could do nothing but watch in horror. Look at this boy you swore to eventually break- you’ve done it now. He’s broken and weeping on your bedroom floor, knees now pressed into the wood.

It took Scott a minute to realize Mike was muttering a string of words in between his cries, a breathless and hollow attempt at defense. “I’m just like you.” He said. “I’m just like you.”

Scott couldn’t watch anymore. He offered an extended palm in comfort, but Mike recoiled violently at the thought of touch. Remorseful tears fell from Scott’s rarely spilling eyes. 

It was all gone now. The last domino of this broken relationship had toppled. 

“I didn’t mean it.” Was all Scott whispered. He sat himself on the floor a few feet away from Mike. “I didn’t mean it.”

They held on that night. Scott forced himself to stay despite the tempting option at his regular abandoning habit. He deserves to listen to what he’s done. And Mike had cried himself out, giving nothing but shuddered breaths into the quiet room. This was months of pent up aggression leaving his bones, so why did he feel more heavy?

Hours later, Mike would pick himself up to find Scott asleep in a drunken and sorry display. His snores were soft but his eyebrows knitted in an obvious sign of distress. 

Mike didn’t remember falling asleep himself, but the ache in his bones proved the simple escape. The party was silent now. It was over.

For the last time, Mike made his way out of the Favor’s house.


	15. Under the Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city I live in, the city of angels,  
> lonely as I am, together we cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of updating, but this chapter was very difficult for me to write. i feel so much whenever i write about mike, it hurts to picture him in the ways that i am. in the movie, when scott left, mike had gone down a spiral. i needed to illustrate that hurt in a way that was relevant to this story- so please be aware that this is a hurtful chapter. 
> 
> TW- talks and effects of addiction, self-harm through drug abuse, harsh language

“Bob is dead.”

“What?”

Gary sniffed. He shuffled his hands in his pockets, tapping them against his legs. “The fat man died.”

Mike stared at the boy in his doorway, shock edging up the sides of his torso and freezing his hand in place on top of the lock. He took a couple of beating seconds to collect himself before pursuing. “That’s not why you’re here, is it?”

With his emotions on display, Gary let his eyes cloud over and his jaw click. He looked down at Mike and exhaled. Toughly. “No, it’s not.”

Understanding, but not too intimidated, Mike stepped aside and let the old friend through. Usually he’d be embarrassed to have people over, but it was just good Gary, who knows about the cracks in the ceiling or lack thereof. He led his way inside and to the kitchen, where Dick was busy clanking pipes beneath the sink. 

“Gary’s here.” Mike pressed. Dick guffed in response and continued his job, ignoring the fact that Mike was now reaching into the liquor cabinet. He poured two shots in their respectable glasses. “To the old man.”

“To the old man.” Gary responded cooly, not letting this act of familiarity between them dull his intentions. They were going to talk. Really, talk. And Mike knew it.

They set the glasses down and walked into Mike’s room. 

“Where have you been?” Gary asked after a few moments of silence. He was looking around with a hot gaze, as if he would find the answers to his question in the corners of his friend’s beaten bedroom. “For the past two weeks, I mean.”

“Here.” Mike shrugged, sitting down tiredly on his baseless and sheetless mattress. He pretended to ignore the fact that Gary was now hesitating over a pitiful pile of needles on the floor. The more he stared at it, the more he grew in realization. 

“You goin’ under the bridge?” Gary implored, his cool mask slipping for a second to reveal that hellish concern. He cared for Mike - in his own selfish ways - and the last thing he ever wanted was to lose him to an ugly fucking drug. But subconsciously, Gary had been expecting this for a long, long time. 

Mike, taken aback from the sudden burst of care, did nothing but blink back in slow motions. He’d always been able to lie so well, he could even convince himself of the truth. So why did it seem so sinful to do it now?

Silence spoke volumes.

Gary crossed the room. “Let me see your arms.”

Mike opened his mouth and let a protest leap from his throat, but by the time he could push Gary’s hand away his sleeve was already rolled to his shoulder. He yanked the fabric back down as that familiar shame brought tears to his eyes. 

“Fuck, Mike.” Gary stared down at the bruised tracks. “Fuck.”

“Drop it.” He trembled back. He felt so grossly naked, and the last thing he ever wanted was to have a D.A.R.E peptalk from Gary of all fucking people. Shame turned into a self-reflecting anger as the emotions swelled into a craving. He hated himself for thinking that he needed a hit to null his wake, and he hated the fact that Gary had the balls to point this all out. “Is that why you’re here? To just give me shit?” 

There was a heavy silence as they readjusted themselves to the situation. Gary was never the type to care about feelings when it came to being right, and he could easily put Mike in his place with a few low punches. But this was a tender subject. On all accounts. “I’m here because Scott was fucking worried about you.”

Mike let a hollow sound slip out from his chest. 

Gary knew that he could’ve tip-toed around the Scott topic, but Mike deserved clarity and the harsh truth. Because, God, they were all acting like children, and someone needed to cross the bridge for both of them. 

But as Mike’s breath shallowed into pitiful little exhales, Gary realized that this was more than just a shitty argument. Whatever idiot thing Scott had said really messed him up, because Mike was... grey. Grey with yellowing skin and unwashed hair. His knitted sweater that lay loose over his bones creased in the fabric, indicating that he hadn’t changed in days. And as he managed to wrap his thin arms around himself in that personal position, Gary felt himself staring at a heartbreakingly ill stranger. 

Scott had told him that they fought. Scott had told him that he was worried. But he never told him that they had fallen out of love. 

“How is he?” Even Mike was surprised by the question as it leaped into the air. He collected himself slowly, but remained held by his own punctured arms as he asked.

“Better than you, that’s for sure.” Gary joked, realizing all too late that it was a stupid thing to say. As Mike started to crumple, he tried to make up for it. “At least on the outside.”’

Mike hummed, eyes now shut. He began to rock himself gently, suffocating that urge to grab his jacket with the fiver in the pocket and scourge some hits. He felt like nothing but a dirty addict, but then again, he had required Scott so easily, too. Maybe he just had an addictive personality. 

This was withdrawal on several accounts.

Gary still stood awkwardly, not planning for the conversation to turn this way. He had rided on the fact that he could pester Mike into coming back to school with just a few lousy teases. But he hadn’t expected Scott and Mike’s emotions to run so coordinated with each other - hadn’t expected this fight to be more than a few lazy words spewed in a quick anger. It was complex. So was the aftermath. 

So he sighed and sat down.

“Listen, Mike.” He began, already realizing that none of that sounded right. So he sighed once more in frustration, and just let his curiosity get the better of him. “What the fuck did he say, anyway?”

Mike found himself smiling, then. It wasn’t a pleasant sign of endearment, not when the memory of Scott’s harsh words started clamoring for a reaction in every sense of the word. He didn’t know why he found himself with the corners of his mouth raised, perhaps his anger had gone full circle and was now replaced with a loving irony. He was truly pitiful, wasn’t he? “Called me a faggot.”

“Oh.” Gary felt awkward. He definitely had called Mike that before in a joking context, so it obviously was more than just the word. Again, not knowing what to say, he just spoke the truth. “I think he feels... bad… about it?”

“Sure.” Mike nodded slowly. He was starting to get annoyed, that agitated feeling of hunger boiling in his belly. It fogged up his thoughts, and a hurtful chuckle drew out from his breath. “He’s the faggot, though.”

Gary leaned his head forward in shock, watching closely as Mike fell deeper and deeper into himself with a spilling truth. He was speechless for a couple minutes after that, remembering all the times he found himself teasing Scott about Carmella, asking if he could have a turn with her. And Scott always seemed proud, looping his arm around her waist whenever he could. Now, Gary was realizing how performative this all looked. Was Favor really the boy loving type?

Well, by the look on Mike’s face, no.

“Listen,” Gary was well-spent now, his emotions running faster than he could process them. He was never good at comfort, and he seemed to emphasize the tough in the phrase “tough love”. This was more than he could carry, so he found himself focusing on the one thing he could address. Drugs. “I don’t care if you and Scott fucked each other, or each other over, yeah? I don’t give a shit. But you can’t start using. Not like this.”

Agitation morphed into something more cruel. It grasped Mike sharply, shaking him all over until he was all undone. “When did you start to give a fuck, Gary? Huh? When did everyone start to _suddenly _care about me?”__

__Gary reached out and Mike recoiled, feet moving without him wanting too, pacing in sporadic movements. His heart was lurching, his body craving. He felt like sobbing but the tears didn’t come. He hadn’t cried for weeks. “Where was this love ten years ago? Ten months ago, even?” A laugh ripped his throat. “I needed it then more than I do now.”_ _

__All of his emotions, which were now tumbling in a downward spiral, could no longer be controlled. He had thrown his head against the drywall, angry and needing to feel a sharp plunge of pain. The momentary satisfaction drew him to start throwing his body around in contourted angles, each thump against the wall harder than the last. Gary could do nothing but watch, aware that this was a form of mutilated suicide._ _

__Mike Waters was killing himself._ _

__“You’re bleeding.”_ _

__“Get the fuck out of here.”_ _

__“Mike-”_ _

__“Mike, Mike, Mike.” He sneered, slinking into the floor. “Why did that bitch give me such a lousy fucking name? Why does everyone say it like it means something?”_ _

__He wasn’t making sense, now, and it scared Gary. Scared Gary shitless. He started to wonder if this was a bad trip and if Mike had cooked up before he arrived, but the look in his eyes proved otherwise. They were simultaneously both alive and dead, and with highs it was one or the other. So he stood there, making sure there was no hidden meaning to Mike’s words, before he found his voice._ _

__“What happened to you?” His voice was eerily still. Careful._ _

__“Scott Favor,” He murmured back, palms running through his hair. “Scott Favor happened to me.”_ _

__

__

__

__Gary walked out of Water’s house with his hands in his pockets and his eyes wide. He approached Scott’s car and pulled the passenger door open in a swift movement, not realizing that he had started to run the closer he got to an escape._ _

__Scott watched, surprised, but not letting it crack through his stoney expression. “Well?”_ _

__Gary slammed the door and caught his breath. The image of Mike, forehead bleeding from it’s collision, made him squirm in the leather seats. He felt like he was betraying him by sitting in Scott’s car. He looked at the rich boy with a tough gaze. “What did you do?”_ _

__Scott’s expression melted for a second as a million horrific thoughts came crashing down upon him. Gary never let his cool slip, so that could only mean one thing: Mike was terrible. Really, really terrible. He turned his expression forwards and pulled the gear out of park._ _

__“Was I right?” Was all he managed to ask, ignoring one difficult question with another. The car seemed too quiet as it rumbled down the city._ _

__Gary closed his eyes. “Yes. It was H, though. Not speed.”_ _

__Scott let a quiet cry of desperation exhale out of his throat. He assumed that when Mike didn’t show up to school for nearly two weeks that he was on some sort of bender, but he also hoped for once in his life that his assumptions were wrong. That’s what he approached Gary about in the first place. He wondered if Mike had the balls to start using the way he did._ _

__“Should I have gone in?” Scott let himself wonder out loud, feeling shitty at the fact that Gary had to see Mike like that. He shouldn’t have seen the effects of his actions. “Instead?”_ _

__“No.” Gary said after a brief thought. His head was now resting on the back of the seat, too bummed out for even a smoke. “Definitely not.”_ _

__That hurt Scott a little. “Can I still fix this?”_ _

__“No.” He mumbled once more. “But you need too.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry. i have had this story/plot planned out since the beginning, but i was still left struggling to write out this part. i'm not sure how many chapters are left, but i'd say about four to five (?). things do turn around by then. also, i know that scott is a bit of an asshole in the movie, but know that no matter what he says he still deeply loves mike. also gary supremacy.
> 
> thank you all for being so patient with this story. these characters means so much to me, and i'm trying to be as authentic as possible. i think there is about two more chapters of angst left before we start to turn things around. also the term "under the bridge" is a reference to the rhcp song, since it's about addiction to heroin. i heard the phrase somewhere before, but when i looked it up it wasn't listed as official slang. just to clarify!
> 
> stay safe, stay loved  
> <3  
> 


	16. Ti Amo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to get this chapter out as quickly as possible, so excuse any minor editing mistakes!
> 
> TW- drugs, allusion to underage hustling

By the time Mike picked himself back up, the blood was dry. 

He slunk himself up against the wall and focused on the sound of his breathing, his hand wrapping around the grooves of the plaster to settle himself. His head, expectantly, hurt. His body ached. 

He wanted to die, and that proved he was still alive.

The room was dark, signalling the fact that he had crashed for most of the day. This wasn’t the first event like this, nor would it be the last, and it left him hollow in a loss of time. If it weren’t for the flakes of red peeling off his temple, he would swear that the entire interaction with his old friend was just junkie limbo passed off as a nightmare. But it was real, all of it was real. 

Shuffling, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the door and carried himself out of the apartment.

Mike made sure that the shop's lights were off before descending the stairs. Not that he would give two shits, but Dick sometimes blew off work to watch TV in the employee room, and Mike tried his best to avoid him these days. Besides, there was always the slim chance he could suddenly have a fatherly intuition that went against Mike’s actions. He always teetered those lines oddly. 

The empty streets gave Mike a sense of time. Rushhour went from five to seven, so it had to be at least a couples hours after. He bundled up his coat upon his shoulders and thumbed at the pockets.

His five was gone. He suddenly felt very cold.

There was no way he was going to survive the night without something. Anything. It was a scary realization to come to - accepting dependency. He almost walked back up those stairs to go cold turkey, but if that gnawing hunger had to be fed one last time, he supposed sobriety would have to wait. There was no way around this. 

_“What happened to you?”_

__Strange how things can change so quickly. How one moment you’re meekly cracked, the next you’re fully shattered. But Mike was destined for this. Destined to cross that line of brokenness, delving into irreplaceable pieces. Since birth, he was shuffled from a hospital to a psych-ward, glued to his mother’s hip in maternal protection. Maybe those formative months with her were the reason he loved her the way he did. It was endless. Blinding._ _

__It was Scott all over again._ _

__The name came to him in a gentle embrace, wrapping him in the past comfort he so desperately needed. He had loved Scott, truly. But oh - how it was unrequited. From the vague allusions of what Gary told him, Scott seemed to be doing just fine without him. Going to school, carrying on, living. He would marry Carmella once they turn eighteen and he would never look back on his time beneath the hill._ _

__The thought dragged Mike’s feet down._ _

__From the very beginning Mike knew. But now, his lovely thoughts about the gentle Scott flipped. He hated him. More than he could ever hate a person that cool. Hated his excuses, hated his lies, hated his inability to communicate or recipucrate. Perhaps his father was to blame, or his mother’s death, or his sheltered life. In the end it was just who he was. Accountability. Another word the Favor’s never used._ _

__As he thought about all the shitty things Scott endured, Mike felt a twinge of guilt. Of course he didn’t hate him, not truly, anyway. But it felt better to blame it all on one easily understood emotion instead of squinting to find the love still there. Scott went through his own childish hell with grown men, and Mike was sure he never would have told him that if they had been sober. Scott was the type of person to smother his trauma and carry on, where Mike wore his on his sleeve. He hated him for it._ _

__Mike shifted towards the hill, mind still stuck on those grown men._ _

__

__

__

__

__Scott sat with his hands on his knees, mind blurring between verbal consciousness. Besides him, Carmella sat perched in a similar position, equally as bored._ _

__The room smelt of parchment and cigar smoke. Scott was drowning in it._ _

__“Carmella will turn seventeen in March.” He caught his father saying, mind crawling back into the present. “By then Scott will be eighteen and can legally sign off as her husband.”_ _

__Around him, Mr. McCarthy and his father’s respectable business associates nodded. They scribbled and scratched on their pads, noting the details of what this marriage meant legally. It was an inheritance situation, something about Visas and bank accounts becoming more accessible with a shared last name, but Scott didn’t read the fine print. Didn’t give two shits about anything, in fact._ _

__He was quiet._ _

__The complicity was appreciated by Scott’s father but neglected by Carmella. She was becoming more and more anxious, fingers gripping into the corners of her dress as the topic of her returning to Italy was proclaimed slim. Scott felt sorry for her, then, but was too mournful for his own future to come to her defense. He was going to be just like his father, and that alone sunk him back down into his own head._ _

__The men shook hands, all standing up and muttering thanks. Moments like these, Carmella pretended not to know English as she nodded her head around. Scott didn’t bother faking goodbyes and remained seated._ _

__“You’re a coward.” Carmella whispered. Scott was drawn back in, realizing that everyone had slipped out of the room and it was just the two of them. The bright light coming from the desk lamp illuminated Carmella aesthetically sorrowful._ _

__For once, however, she was not crying._ _

__Scott couldn’t bring himself to care, but to say that he wasn’t surprised by her words would be a lie. He perked his eyebrows down as if he were begging for an explanation. Her gaze fell to the floor._ _

__“None of this had to happen.” Carmella rasped. She muttered something in Italian, bringing her hand up to her hair before continuing in English. “You didn’t have to do it.”_ _

__Scott sat for a minute before getting to his feet, no trace of venom around his movements. Instead he looked hollow. Sucked dry. That scared Carmella, too._ _

__“What could I have done?” He asked, his words genuine. He wanted to know how to take this all back. What mistake he had to erase in order for things to go back to normal._ _

__“Anything. You could have done anything.”_ _

__Carmella was projecting, now. She was trying to find a blame for everything going the way it did and Scott was an easy scapegoat. Despite this, a part of him realized she was right. He never had to call her. Never had to agree to do anything. He would be eighteen next month, and by then he could have skipped town without the fear of being legally bound to his last name. Carmella would’ve had to go back to her country where a future, open to change and possibilities, awaited. It sounded so sweet to them both._ _

__But they were stuck in this together, all because Scott needed a distraction. And oh, did she know about that._ _

__“How is he?” Carmella asked quietly, voice still trembling with rage. Her insinuation to Mike’s presence brought a shrill of anger down Scott’s body. She knew that he was going off the deep end. Everyone did. He glared._ _

__“He’s fine.” He mumbled, admitting to everything in Carmella’s illusion with two simple words. She did not look pleased to be correct._ _

__“Don’t lie. You ruined him.” She said, taking a step in his direction. “Will you ruin me?”_ _

__“No.” Scott sneered, playing with his own twisted self-reflection. He wanted the words to come out sharp and cunning, but he let a sadness slip by. “I don’t love you enough to bother.”_ _

__“I wish you would.” Her breath was hot, each syllable tinted with an accent of both her native tongue and pent up anger. “Maybe by then I’ll have something to show for this marriage besides money. Oh -! Maybe I’ll have by then kids, eh? Keep this business going on for another fucked up generation.”_ _

__“You’d be great with kids.” Scott muttered sarcastically before Carmella continued, slightly wounded._ _

__“Imagine if she’s a girl, Scott. Imagine if you have a daughter and she marries out of love. How stupid will you feel, then, to see her better than us? Or if it’s a son - God forbid - and he inherits the thing you call masculinity. Will you disown him once he starts kissing boys? Because if they are anything like us, Scott, I hope they find their own strength. God knows we don’t have any to give!”_ _

__The room fell quiet. A clock ticked rhythmically._ _

__

__Strangely, a tension had been lifted._ _

__

__Carmella sighed deeply, feeling a bit better in her self-control. She sat down on the edge of that grand mahogany desk, tired from all the commotion. “I’m sorry. I needed to yell.”_ _

__Scott nodded in understanding. So far, Carmella had been nothing but mature and well-kept in this situation. She deserved a moment of volition. They were just kids, afterall. They couldn’t be completely composed just yet. And despite her harsh truth, Scott felt cradled in her passion. Maybe because he’d been lacking his own emotions for weeks and to see it spewn so proudly in his direction felt human. Or perhaps it was her acknowledgement that eased him into empathy. Either way, he wasn’t mad at all._ _

__It reminded him of Mike._ _

__“She’d have your eyes.” Scott mumbled, latching on to that topic instead of the latter. He felt a bit bad about what he had said, because honestly she’d be a great mother. He crossed the room and sat next to her._ _

__“He’d have your chin.” She replied. They shared a smile that dissipated back to frowns._ _

__“So you knew?” Scott wondered, no longer being able to suppress that urge to talk about it. Despite his lack of initial anger, he still felt gutted at the thought of being read so easily. If she knew, how many more did?_ _

__“For a while.” Words dripped in sympathy, but shifted into concern. “Can I ask you something?”_ _

__“M-hm.”_ _

__“How far did you two go?”_ _

__It was a blunt question, but easily understood. Scott could be honest with her and talk about the drug induced kiss, but even he didn’t really count that. It was just a flicker. “We didn’t do anything.”_ _

__“You didn’t…?” She flushed in both embarrassment and allusion to what she had assumed. “Oh.”_ _

__Scott felt like he was lying to her, but then again, she hadn’t asked for his thoughts. Hadn’t asked for what his hand did or where his mind traveled to when he was alone. He felt a little guilty. “That’s all over, anyway.”_ _

__“I liked him.” She said matter of factly, sniffling. “He was everything we aren’t.”_ _

__“Strong?”_ _

__“Loveable.”_ _

__Scott’s shoulders dropped slightly. “Don’t say that about yourself.”_ _

__She gave a weak laugh at the fact that he admitted his faults. “You’re strange, Scott. You are so easy for blame, so self-aware, it makes it hard to hate you.”_ _

__Scott thought of Mike’s stern gaze - one that he’d been on the receiving end for too many times. “He hates me, though.”_ _

__“We both know that timid boy couldn’t hate anyone.” She said, reminded of the night she first met Mike. She thought of a boy in a costume, hair slick back and voice soft. A boy that handed her his cake once he saw that she was scared. “He’s good for you.”_ _

__Scott, feeling even more sunken, bowed his head. He’s had enough of the fighting, enough of the denial. All he wanted right now was to set things right again. Hell, he didn’t even want Mike to be in his arms anymore. All he wanted was for Mike to be safe in his own._ _

__But only one broken heart at a time. “I’m sorry. For hurting you.”_ _

__Carmella looked over at him. He never apologized like this before. Upon inspection, she noted his teary eyes that remained stuck on the floor._ _

__“It did hurt at first, yes.” She took his hand. “But if you had the option to feel loved then I would never blame you for taking it.”_ _

__“I don’t even want that anymore.” His grip tightened around her delicate fingers. “I just want him alive. He’s killing himself, Mel, and it’s my fault.”_ _

__She brought his hand up and kissed it gently. All this time, Carmella had thought of Mike as everything Scott wasn’t. But the boy she held to her lips now, the boy who shook in fear, was just like the boy he loved. They had the same cracks in their hearts. The same tender build and fragile mind._ _

__The same hurt in their eyes._ _

__“Have you spoken to him?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Well, there’s a good place to start.”_ _

__Scott looked over to her. They were both crying, with eyes glistening in the warm light as their gazes spoke for them. So much was silently said, then. She was giving him permission. He was giving thanks._ _

__He leaned down and kissed her one last time. “Ti amo.”_ _

__She smiled. “No, you don’t.”_ _

__

__

__

__Scott's car rumbled out of his garage, creeping towards the iron gates in a quiet hum. Carmella waved from the doorway, a shadow against the warmth of the light inside as she stood watch. The adults that they were sneaking away from were conversing over whiskey and cigars, giving the two time to act upon emotion instead of business. Scott raised a hand in goodbye._ _

__He felt a pange at the thought of leaving. But he hoped to never see her again._ _

__His white knuckled grip upon the wheel only seemed to deepen as he turned the corner, creeping down the rolling hills of his childhood. He knew where he was going. For the first time in his life he had a destination._ _

__It scared him._ _

__His determination to that pictured apartment almost made him hit the body walking on the side of the road. Scott swerved gently, barely missing the pedestrian as he skidded the car to a halt. The figure bounced back, shying away from the bright headlights and the sudden noise._ _

__Scott cursed softly, finding himself unable to continue forwards once he caught his breath. It was cold tonight._ _

__He couldn’t leave them there._ _

__Despite his ache to see Mike as soon as possible, he wouldn’t feel good about leaving this person to stumble back home on their own. The figure was huddled beneath their jacket, small and shivering and grey, signalling to Scott that it was just the everyday hustler crawling down after a quick buck. This wasn’t the first one, and it wouldn’t be the last._ _

__“Hey-!” Scott popped his head out the window, cold air biting his nose immediately. “Need a ride back down?”_ _

__Scott could now see that it was a man who stood in the headlights path, tensing rigidly at Scott’s call._ _

__“C’mon man, I won’t hurt you.” Scott laughed. “I got a pack of smokes to share!”_ _

__The body ducked his head down and shifted his shoulder blades, taking deep breaths in the cold. A burst of smoke-like condensation evaporated from each exhale, physically proving the temperature outside, making Scott more determined to get him in. In the man’s right fist, a crisp twenty lay in proof of what he had just endured. So he was a hustler._ _

__“If you’re worried that I’ll try anything,” Scott called, using the same points he always did to get these people to safety. “No offense, but you’re not my type.”_ _

__The man’s fist began to shake, money crumpling in his grasp._ _

__“Come on!” He called once more._ _

__The man turned around. Scott’s breath hitched._ _

__Mike Water’s stood caught in the headlights._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the last interaction between scott and mike had been planned since the beginning. at this point, mike willingly put himself through what scott had been running from, and i used that to show his weakness in those moments. there's also a lot of fighting going on- sorry! but i plan for only one more episode of angst. we're starting to pick back up:)
> 
> carmella is my favorite person to write, mike a close second. i really like exploring her views on love and mike and scott's relationship, since it was kind of alluded to that her and mike share the same beliefs towards scott. gah, love her.
> 
> anyway, thank you all!!!  
> stay safe and stay loved


	17. Chinatown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer chapter here, but easily one of my favorites. havent edited so ignore minor grammar mistakes.
> 
> TW- talks/allusions of sexual abuse and drug use- not explicitly - but please be mindful.

It had started to snow.

Whisps of white circles blew down in tilts, carried by the culminating winter wind. The flakes caught themselves in the headlights of Scott’s rumbling car, painting Mike starkly against the pitch black night as he stood in it’s reflection. 

They stared at each other. 

Answers started to disclose themselves with every digested detail. Mike’s attire was shifted and torn, with his jacket resting on one shoulder. It’s disarrangement revealed wounds; bruises on his wrists, tracks on his arms, bright blue veins on his neck. He looked roughed up, similar to a child who had returned home from a playground tussle with bullies. And it weren’t for the twenty in his palm that now wilted from the snow, it would be easier to accept Mike’s state. 

But no. It was far worse than a fight.

Scott got out of the car slowly, as if he was approaching a wounded deer he had struck with his bumper, and never let his gaze drop. Mike read him as well, drinking in the sight of an old friend. Scott was dressed nicely, grey silk button up clinging to his chest, jacket discarded in the back of his car. It was funny, then. The two were heightened versions of themselves, playing into their assigned class rolls with dialed up saturation. Mike- a proper slum. Scott- a proper millionaire. 

Like a western, the two stood suspended, waiting for the other to engage first. Only when another gust of wind swept them up by their bones with a sharp shiver, leading Mike to shakily inhale with surprise, did the trigger let loose.

Scott lurched forwards to close the space between them. 

Mike was certain he was going to hit him. 

Every nerve in his mind jolted back, warning him to run before he found himself the brunt of yet another hand. Mike drew in a sharp breath as warm arms wrapped around his neck instead, engulfing him an embrace that held more power than any possible fist. 

Scott wept. 

Burying his face deeper into the crook of Mike’s neck, Scott shivered under the weight of Mike’s support. Perhaps it was his strangled whimpers, or the overwhelming feeling of his own relief, but Mike couldn’t resist any longer. His hands slowly pulled upwards, clawing into the fabric of Scott’s back as he grew desperate in this hug. He ran his hands up and down, grounded in the warmth of another body that sweetly clutched him. He closed his eyes and leaned into Scott’s shoulder.

If he held his breath, Mike could hear Scott’s shudders. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

That was it. That’s what did it. Mike found his vision blurring, his head spinning, as he succumbed to his grief. Because even if he happened to miss the whispered apologies that murmured hot against his neck, Mike could feel Scott’s remorse through his beating chest that rested against his own. That, in all it’s unsaid glory, was enough for a peaceful shiver to run down his spine. The ache he’d been carrying for months - years - his whole life - finally became too much.

He collapsed into Scott’s arms, happy in the thought of never waking up. 

Mike dreamt of rolling fields and dry hay. Of bustling brooks and breezes. Of his mother’s hair and clouded perfume. 

So it was a surprise when the starch smell of bleach flooded his senses.

He blinked for a couple seconds, adjusting his sight as that midwestern sun transformed into fluorescent lights that shone overhead. The peaceful Idaho he so often fantasized about melted away completely as he now understood where he was. An IV in his arm. Scratchy cotton sheets beneath his body. 

Scott in the corner, watching carefully. 

“Hi.” The rich boy said, although by the look in his face he could tell that it was a lame thing to say. He was sitting in the green leather seat besides him, one leg perked up while the other stretched out upon the floor. He was lounging. He’d been waiting for a while. 

Disoriented, Mike held his gaze. “Hi.”

They were in the ER instead of a real hospital room, two white sheets separating them from other late-night patients. A drunk was sleeping soundly to their left, a mother with a sick child to their right. Mike couldn’t see them, but Scott had been watching them file in all night. 

Instead of the obvious question - why he was here - Mike found himself asking for the time.

“Two.” Scott said after a quick glance at his watch. “But you’ve been cleared for over an hour.”

“Cleared?”

“Yeah, cleared.” Scott shifted his leg so he was now sitting up straight. “Shot _Vivitrol _in your arm. Gave you a prescription. Let you rest, but you’re free to go whenever.”  
Mike’s throat felt dry. It was strange, but the fact that Scott remembered the name of the complicated medicine made him queasy. That small detail proved that he’d been paying attention. He’d been asking questions. __

__He’d been caring._ _

__Mike closed his eyes and tensed, attempting to suppress the growing ache in his lower body. He was starting to wake up, in every sense of the word, and that reality felt painfully obvious with every thump of his wounds. He was remembering. For once in his life he was remembering things he shouldn’t._ _

__“How are your-” Scott’s voice shifted. “-bruises.”_ _

__It was as if he could see it. See the pain on Mike’s face. Recognize it perhaps._ _

__“I’m coming down.” The bruised boy replied, alluding to whatever painkiller they gave him. He would ask for another dose, but at this point it would be better for everyone if he stayed away from prescription pills. He didn’t need another box to tick off. “‘S fine.”_ _

__Scott couldn’t hold it in. “Are you alright?”_ _

__“I’m alive.”_ _

__“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?”_ _

__Mike hummed at Scott’s tease._ _

__“But are you alright?”_ _

__They were tiptoeing around the topic. Around the incident that led him here. Scott knew he should be angry- angry at Mike for doing this willingly when Scott spent his whole life running away from it. And he was, for a moment. When he had carried him inside the hospital, clutching him close to his chest, all he could feel was the boiling heat of anger._ _

__Only when Mike was ripped away by gloved hands did he realize that the anger was pointed at himself. He couldn’t be angry, because this was all his fault. He couldn’t be angry, so he sat at Mike’s bedside all night and asked questions to the passing nurses. He couldn’t be angry, not when a doctor had walked in after assessing Mike’s condition only to ask if they could test for possible sexually transmitted diseases, leaving a gutted Scott to stumble a meek ‘okay’._ _

__He wanted to heal. Wanted to talk. But he couldn’t be angry._ _

__“Scott?”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“Get this needle out of me.”_ _

__

__With a looped arm that practically carried him, Mike molded himself against Scott and hobbled out of the hospital’s sliding glass doors. They still had paperwork to fill out and bills to pay, but with the help of Scott’s watchful eyes and a car accident reeling in new patients, they were able to dodge the bustling nurses by taking the back entrance. The cool air immediately eased them, but Mike still found himself nauseous._ _

__They were halfway between the parking lot when Mike doubled over. Kneeling against the inches of accumulating snow that had hours of build-up, Mike heaved as his stomach found its way out of him and onto the pavement. Scott immediately ducked down to rub his back._ _

__He truly cared._ _

__“You sure you want to leave?” Scott whispered, running a few snow covered fingers across Mike’s temple to cool him. Mike shook his head before folding over once more, a ghastly sound leaving his throat._ _

__Scott pressed his fingers deeper into his friend’s coat, preparing to carry him back inside. He hummed comfort as Mike’s shoulders began to shake, a quiet sound leaving his mouth as if he were sobbing. But the louder the sound became, the more closely Scott realized that he wasn’t crying at all._ _

__He was laughing._ _

__“I think I’ve been here before.” He wiped a hand across his mouth. “Only I was drunk.”_ _

__It wasn’t as funny as Mike made it seem, but lack of sleep and general ridiculousness at the situation made both of their lips quip upwards._ _

__“You’re worse when you’re drunk.” Scott added, making both of them erupt into another low chuckle._ _

__Mike leaned into Scott’s hold suddenly, resting his head on his shoulder as he collected his breath. His face was warm against Scott’s cool collar-bone, igniting a feeling of gratitude in Scott’s gut. He never thought he’d feel this again._ _

__He didn’t care about the smell. Couldn’t care less about the snow soaking up his knees where he crouched. Didn’t even think about the fact that Mike could’ve quite possibly, and quite reasonably, fallen out of love with him._ _

__Because in the end, Mike was safe in his arms, and everything felt right._ _

__They picked themselves up slowly, muttering confirmations of steadiness before doing so. Scott handed Mike a pile of fresh snow for him to press his mouth against, promising a real meal as soon as they got back into town. Mike nodded, finding solace in the cold water that he sucked needily from the ice._ _

__But once they found themselves nestled back into Scott’s familiar car, the tension in the air returned._ _

__It wasn’t as if Mike was still bitter towards Scott. He understood that the words yelled that bad night were instantly regretted, and that they reflected upon Scott’s own feelings about himself more than anything else. Mike knew that Scott was sorry. He felt it in his embrace._ _

__But the reason he found himself so uncomfortable was because he knew that he fucked up. Fucked up badly. He half expected Scott to dig into him right then and there, scolding him like a disrespected teacher. Yelling at him for being so careless. Perhaps two weeks ago Scott would’ve, but now?_ _

__He started up the car, only one thing leaving his mouth. “You up for Chinese?”_ _

__To which Mike replied. “I’m never up for Chinese.”_ _

__That earned a genuine smile. “Chinese it is.”_ _

__

__

__The thought of eating greasy and cheap food wasn’t very appealing, especially since Mike had only just washed away the sick from his tongue. But their regular Chinese take-out joint was the only one open this late, and Mike couldn’t remember the last time he had a warm meal._ _

__So he breathed through his nose and sat across from Scott in their familiar booth._ _

__It felt like the old days. When they would pile in afterschool and clutch their book bags to their chests, sprawling out crumpled notebooks across the table in an attempt to study. One of them would start focusing on eating, or say a teasing joke, and their homework would be discarded as they argued or laughed. Sometimes, when the days were heavy, Mike would rest his head against the sticky counter and listen to Scott as he read from his chosen paperback. Scott would do funny voices for different characters, making them both laugh. Or when the book was more philosophical and Mike wanted to speak, they would toss each other morals. Sometimes Gary or Digger or Budd waltzed in, called over to their table with a wave._ _

__Mike felt sick again. Nostalgia certainly was a heavy thing._ _

__“Just a black coffee.” Scott smiled warmly. The waitress nodded and looked over to Mike, who was especially pale. Scott interjected for him, concern sticking to his gaze. “He’ll stick with water- for now.”_ _

__Due to the odd hour, the restaurant was nearly empty. No bustling customers or rowdy kids, just one man in the corner with a steaming pile of soup besides him. He seemed homeless. Quiet._ _

__Mike didn’t see much difference between them both._ _

__“You alright?” Scott eventually asked. Mike looked over._ _

__“You keep asking that.” He muttered, taking this moment to really read his old friend. Scott’s hair was pushed back in quiffs, a few melted snowflakes still bright against the dark brunette mess. It was strange, but it made him look older. Like it had been more than just the two weeks. A lifetime._ _

__When his eyes landed on Scott’s partially hidden collar-bone he noticed the fact that he - still - wasn’t wearing a jacket. Only then did Mike feel the extra weight upon his shoulders and the strong smell of vanilla under his nose. Only then did he feel slightly warmer than usual._ _

__He looked down to find Scott’s black coat tucked beneath his own scraggly bomber jacket, buttoned up cozily across his chest. Oh._ _

__“You keep avoiding the question.” Scott quirked, watching Mike watch him. He nodded to his jacket. “Keep it on.”_ _

__“But it’s yours.”_ _

__“That’s alright, Mike. Aren’t you cold?”_ _

__

__“Yes, but, it’s yours.”_ _

__“You never cared about that before-”_ _

__The waitress clinked a porcelain cup down. They both shifted uncomfortably, wrapped up in that familiar banter that flowed so easily - too easily - across the table._ _

__Before. There was a before._ _

__The waitress put down a water glass and Mike clung to it instantly._ _

__“Cho mein.” Mike muttered when asked if they would like to place an order. His chin was held against his chest, but he could feel Scott’s eyes read him nonetheless._ _

__“I’ll stick with the coffee.”_ _

__When they were left alone - yet again strangers to a silence - it was harder to start another conversation. Mike could make a _“Who orders black coffee in a Chinese restaurant?” _comment like he always did, which would then inspire Scott to smirk and toss his head with an _“Me, obviously.” _reply. That was their routine. That was their thing._____ _

______Now it felt like a foreign concept. An inside joke both of them had lost the inclusion to._ _ _ _ _ _

______In the end it was Scott who first spoke, watching from the brim of his cup as Mike took a few bites of his dish that had just arrived. “I’m running away.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Mike snapped his head up._ _ _ _ _ _

______He stared intently, lost in the dark color of Scott’s eyes as he tried to determine the sincerity of his words. But as the joke fizzled out of existence - he was being completely serious - Mike continued to slowly chew. “Tonight?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Yeah,” Scott shifted. “Tonight.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Mike focused his gaze on his plate and swallowed. His fork stood suspended in his grip. “With or without me?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______That seemed to knock Scott off his feet. Whether it was the question itself or the boldness in which he asked it, it didn’t matter. He stared into his cup in an attempt to appear aloof._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I was on my way to pick you up, actually.” He replied quietly. He placed the mug down with a gentle click as it seemed far too heavy now._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh...” Mike felt like throwing up again, but perhaps it was a different kind of nervousness. “Are you-”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I was going to get married.” Scott said suddenly. It was a lame excuse. He dropped his gaze lower and drew in a slow breath._ _ _ _ _ _

______“So she knows about this?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“She isn’t coming.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Well. That was that._ _ _ _ _ _

______The two avoided eye contact and silently adjusted to the growing tension. Mike’s heart clamored against his chest, the beats so shaking that he felt it in his ears. He knew what Scott was saying. He knew what he was alluding to. But why did he feel like he was being betrayed all over again?_ _ _ _ _ _

______Perhaps it was the fact that he didn’t understand _why _. Why now, did Scott Favor choose him? Why now did he decide to abandon his wealthy life for good? Was Mike hitting rock bottom all it took for him to face the truth? And if so, how was he supposed to feel about that?___ _ _ _ _ _

________It felt far too hot in here. Far too suffocating in Scott’s jacket._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He drew his gaze to the left, where a large glass window stood tall from the ceiling to the floor. A boy looked back at him, sporting eye bags and bruises, messy blonde hair and hollowed out cheekbones._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike didn’t recognize himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“How’s your head?” Scott asked quietly, voice dropping barely below a whisper. He was watching Mike stare at himself, noticing how the boy’s hand had drawn up to the patch of dried blood on his temple._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike didn’t say anything, just nodded silently. He was struggling not to cry as his gaze shifted from his reflection towards the wisps of white snow outside, as if that would distract him. Scott continued._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Can I ask you something?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike closed his droopy eyes. “You’ve been asking me questions all night.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“What happened?” Scott’s voice was desperate now, clawing the bridge from a whisper to a normal tone. The words caught themselves on the lump in his throat, as if they didn’t want to come out. Part of that was self-defense, because no matter what Mike would say he was going to blame himself for it. Ignorance is bliss, but in this case it would kill him no matter what._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________So he watched as Mike drew in a breath, ducked his head down, and explained._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He had started using H the night after their fight, stumbling down the hill to a well known slum who sold doses in little bags. He knew about this drug from the boy he had a fling with last year, remembering a conversation in which he gave up the address to that very building. He had run into him on his way out, infact, stepping over his shivering body that lay huddled beneath a wall with no foundation. For some reason that made him bitter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________As Mike explained how he used, he felt that familiar tingle in his forearm. He wasn’t skipping out on any of the gory details - he was just rambling now - and the motions of a hit seemed to make his mind a little dull. It wasn’t a craving, but it was close._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He was suffering from a tornado of thoughts he swore he’d take to his grave, watching helplessly as they spewed out across the table for Scott to dig right back up. Mike said he hated himself for becoming dependent on it, but in the end he didn’t know what else to do. So with an empty wallet he climbed that hill and worked a corner to score something. It was the only thing he could think of, and at the time he didn’t address the dangers of his actions. It had been a passing thought._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________If Scott was quiet before, he was even more so now. He sat rigid as Mike explained that a rat looking man had picked him up and emphasized a date. Mike agreed to blow him in the passenger seat for ten dollars - that amount being high on the fact that the man said Mike was “beautiful” - but things escalated when the man locked the car doors and unbuckled his seatbelt._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike couldn’t remember what happened after that. But there was a twenty in his pocket instead of a ten - double the price meant double the sacrifice - and bruises on his wrists. Next thing he knew he was being thrown out against the snow to stumble home._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________That’s when Scott found him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I thought you were that man.” Mike whispered. His voice had been getting meeker and meeker as the story progressed, forcing Scott to block out the ringing in his ears to hear him. “When I saw the headlights I was so scared.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Mikey…” Scott choked, his voice similar to the one he used whenever Mike cradled himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“But then I heard your voice - and I felt safe.” Mike continued. He flashed him an icy blue stare. “I hate that you make me feel safe, Scott.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Scott closed his eyes and struggled to breathe out the truth. What could he say? In the end he sighed lightly and just let an insecurity creep into comfort. “You deserve better.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Don’t tell me what I deserve.” His words weren’t bitter or intended to be. They came out in a simple accent, as if he was answering a question about the weather. Scott opened his eyes back up and held onto Mike’s gaze with strength._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Then I don’t deserve you.” He replied._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike felt a smile tug at his lips despite the growing emptiness in his nerves. He basked in this melancholic feeling - any happiness was still joy, after all. Despite the circumstances. “That’s true.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Scott laughed then, an airy breath of relief that tipped back into sadness towards the end. Even if he was joking and didn’t really believe it, Mike had said a sort of truth. A truth that both of them knew wasn’t up for debate._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Would you have come with me?” Scott found himself asking, eyes now glued to the window. He thought of how perfectly sorrowful Mike looked with snowflakes on his lashes. “If I came by earlier?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike was looking outside as well, fixating a stare at the flakes that seemed to be reeling back on their fast fall. It was clearing up. “No.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Scott nodded. He expected that._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Or at least I would’ve put up a fight.” Mike said as an afterthought. “But I can never stay away from you. You know that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I wouldn’t have fought.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Why not?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Because I thought it best to let you go. Let you run away from me.” Scott blinked, images of Mike in that hospital room flashing painfully across his mind. “But I don’t think that now.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Mike was silent. Processing. Then he turned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“So you would’ve kidnapped me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The joke was lame, igniting nothing from either of them. But Scott was evermore thankful that Mike still held onto his charm despite the night he had. It took Scott forever to build his confidence back up after the first time, and even then it was a protective shell. Perhaps that’s what Mike was doing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Yeah, I would’ve kidnapped you.” Scott replied, tone similar. He turned back to being serious once his eyes met those dull blue ones. “Where would we have gone?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Idaho.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It was an immediate response that comforted Scott. Mike has been thinking about running away, too._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Would that be enough?” Scott asked._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Relief flushed over Mike, emotions torn at the words._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Yes.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness, this felt so good to write. 
> 
> not sure how many other chapters are ahead of us, but i will be going into their journey together. that might take a little longer, so i hope the length of this one feeds yall for a bit!
> 
> stay safe and stay loved<3


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